


This Devil Haunted Land

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Midsomer Musketeers [9]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aramis/Anne - Freeform, Comfort Sex, Drug Dependency, Drunk Sex, Elodie/Marcheaux, Explosions, Friendship, Kidnapping, Literal Cliffhangers, M/M, Mild Peril, Minor Character Death, References to Addiction, References to Suicide, Unlikely coincidences, d'Artagnan/Constance - Freeform, mental issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Midsomer Musketeers 9.When Aramis goes missing the week before his wedding no-one wants to believe he's simply got cold feet, but finding answers means digging into the past he never talks about. Investigating his disappearance, Athos and Porthos have to deal with the impact of a shock a lot closer to home, a near-death experience that leaves Athos starting to unravel. In a month of storms, the sky may be about to fall in.
Relationships: Athos/Porthos
Series: Midsomer Musketeers [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/935982
Comments: 44
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

Dismal November rain was lashing at the windows, and a visitor at this time of night was the last thing Athos expected. He was snuggled up on the couch with Porthos, curtains firmly closed against the miserable weather when the doorbell rang.

Standing on the path, wet and bedraggled, was Anne Bourbon.

"Anne!" Athos stared at her in astonishment. "Come in, God you're soaked." He ushered her into the hallway, wondering whatever could have happened to bring her here on a night like this rather than just phoning. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm not sure." She looked pale under her rain-darkened hair. "Is Porthos here?"

"Yeah, I'm here." Porthos appeared in the living room doorway, looking as surprised as Athos felt. "What's up?"

While they'd both got to know Anne reasonably well whilst working on her house renovations, they rarely saw her socially without Aramis. The couple were due to get married in just over a week's time and Aramis had asked Athos to be his best man.

"It's Aramis. I don't suppose you know where he is, do you?" she asked, looking at them both anxiously.

They exchanged a puzzled glance. "No, sorry. If he's not at home I'd guess he's at one of the churches," Athos hazarded. "Or with a parishioner?" Aramis covered four parishes, and was generally run off his feet. "Is he not answering his phone?"

Anne shook her head. "No. And I haven't spoken to him for two days. I think – this is going to sound crazy, but I think he's gone missing."

"Missing?" Athos and Porthos echoed.

"He's not at home, or answering his phone. He's not at any of the churches and nobody knows where he is."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Porthos asked practically, as Athos took Anne’s sopping coat and ushered her to a chair by the gas fire.

"I spoke to him on the phone two days ago, at lunchtime," Anne told them. "He was due to come up to the Manor that night, but he never showed. I just thought something had come up – he gets called out at all hours, people consider him at their disposal twenty four hours a day."

"And I thought being a policeman was rough," Porthos murmured, glancing at Athos.

"You're never off duty as a vicar," Anne sighed. "I didn't hear from him at all yesterday, and he hasn't answered my texts. By this morning I was properly worried and started looking for him. He's not at home, I've got a key," she explained, blushing slightly. "And it's not just me that’s looking for him – the churchwarden hasn't seen him either, and there's a christening tomorrow. He's started ringing round as well, and it seems like nobody's seen Aramis since the day before yesterday."

"Have you tried the hospitals?" Porthos asked. "No? Okay, we can check. He might be there with a parishioner," he added quickly, seeing Anne's face. "And I can try the system at work, see if anything's been reported."

"Thank you." She twisted her hands together in her lap. "I was going to report him missing, but I thought you might take me more seriously than a random desk sergeant."

"All missing persons are taken seriously," Porthos assured her.

"And if you didn't know him, what would your initial assumption be, as soon as you heard he was due to get married next week?"

Porthos hesitated. "You don't think he _has_ done a runner do you?" he asked, then winced as Athos kicked him sharply in the ankle.

"No, I don't," Anne said firmly, giving Athos a look of grateful amusement. "Do you?"

"Not on the face of it, but people do strange things all the time. Out of character things."

Anne sighed. "I suppose I'd rather think he's jilted me than something's happened to him," she admitted. "I'm hoping it's neither, but in that case where the hell is he?"

"We'll find him," Porthos promised. "I'll make some calls. Look, do you want some dinner? There's some left, and you look like you're about to fall over. When was the last time you ate?"

Athos lead Anne out to the kitchen, taking the hint and leaving Porthos to make his enquiries without having to worry about being overheard. He re-heated a bowl of chicken casserole for her and sat down opposite with a reassuring smile.

"Get that down you, you'll feel better."

"I think it's going to take more than this," Anne sighed, but once she started eating she realised how hungry she was, and Athos watched with satisfaction as she demolished the lot.

By the time she'd finished and was sitting with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, Porthos came into the room with a look of apology.

"Nothing I'm afraid. That's good in a way, right?" he ventured. "He's not been admitted to any hospitals as far as we can tell, and there's been no reports of any accidents involving either him or any unknowns in the last two days, not in the local region anyway."

"So what does that mean?" Anne asked helplessly. 

"Well it means he's probably not dead," Porthos said, intending to be reassuring and feeling slightly hurt by the glare he received from Athos.

"And if it turns out he has just gone off with someone else?" Anne asked in a small voice.

Athos patted her awkwardly on the arm. "Then when we find him, we'll smack him."

–

With promises from Porthos to continue checking official channels, and from Athos to canvass the village for anyone who might have seen him, Anne finally went home, still worried but relieved to have enlisted their help.

Meanwhile the rain continued unabated and by the time they went to bed the wind seemed if anything to be getting worse. It wasn't the wind that disturbed them in the middle of the night though, it was a shrill piercing note that jerked them both awake.

"Whassat?" Athos mumbled, still half asleep. Porthos, more alert, pushed back the sheets.

"It's the smoke alarm. Shit, get up." He paused just long enough to be sure Athos was getting out of bed and not just putting the pillow over his head, then barrelled down the stairs to see what the problem was, braced for smoke or flames or God knew what else.

He stuck his head into the living room and then the kitchen and then, increasingly confused, into the small downstairs toilet. The head-splitting alarm abruptly cut out, and he came back into the hall to find Athos standing on the stairs in his dressing gown, having pushed the button to cancel the alarm.

"What's going on? Are we on fire?"

Porthos shook his head, frowning. "I can't see anything wrong. Can you smell smoke?"

Athos sniffed. There was a strong waft of woodsmoke that disappeared again as soon as he turned his head to try and follow it. It was a familiar smell that came and went, and not one that had ever troubled the sensors before. Could a ghost set off a smoke alarm, he wondered?

"No. Can't smell a thing." It was true, now.

"Must have been the wind, stirring up the dust."

Athos snorted. "Don't let Trixie hear you say that." He came down the rest of the stairs to where Porthos was standing in the hallway. "Shall we have a cup of tea? No way I'm getting back to sleep after that little shock."

"Yeah, alright. Put the kettle on, I'll go and get my dressing gown." Porthos turned back towards the stairs just as a particularly strong gust rattled the doors and windows and was followed by a loud and hideous cracking noise.

"Shit, what was that?" Porthos looked back at Athos in startled confusion.

"Hope it wasn't the chimney coming down." Athos broke off, listening. The initial crack had been followed by an ominous groaning and creaking noise, and suddenly without warning the glass in the front door burst inwards.

Porthos threw himself back, taking Athos down to the floor with him and covering him with his body as they were showered with bits of glass, leaves and rain as what felt like the entire storm blew inside. This was accompanied by the most almighty crash and they huddled together, afraid to move, convinced the entire house must be collapsing in on them.

After a while things settled down and there was nothing but the sound of the wind. Porthos cautiously got to his feet and helped Athos up. "You okay?"

"Mildly squashed." Athos brushed bits of twig and stained glass out of his hair. The lightbulb in the hall had been smashed, but enough filtered out from the kitchen to see a large branch protruding through the door and up the hallway. "Shit."

Porthos pushed his way through to peer out into the night.

"Careful." Athos winced, conscious that the broken light fitting was sparking amongst the branches.

"Looks like the ash tree's come down." Porthos struggled back to him, looking grim. "I think it's gone through the roof."

Athos stared at him blankly, for a moment unable to take in the ramifications. Seeing he was frozen, Porthos grabbed his shoulders. "Come on. We need to get out of here, I don't think it's safe." He flinched as the light socket fizzed loudly then pulled open the hall cupboard, thrusting coat and walking boots at Athos before turning off the main fuse.

Plunged into darkness, they groped their way into the kitchen, and with coats over their pyjamas and walking boots on bare feet let themselves out of the back door.

It was an unpleasant journey over the fence and along the edge of the forestry, with pine needles whipping at them and their thin pyjama legs quickly soaked. They hit the road and walked back down it to inspect the damage from the front. An enormous ash tree had indeed toppled right onto the house, splintering through the roof and leaving a huge jagged hole open to the elements.

Athos said nothing, and Porthos put a protective arm around him. "You alright?" Athos managed a nod but stayed silent, and Porthos frowned. They were cold and wet and he didn't want Athos going into shock. The houses to either side were dark, one was empty and up for sale and the elderly sisters on the other side were away. Porthos wondered what to do for the best, realising with a pang that his phone had been by the bed. Ordinarily he'd have suggested knocking up Aramis but the man was inconveniently missing.

"Sylvie."

"What?" It was the first thing Athos had said for some time, and it was so incongruous Porthos half expected to find her standing in the road.

"She's the closest option." Athos gave a violent shiver, and grabbed Porthos' arm. "Come on."

They retraced their steps back up the hill away from the village and took the road leading onto the housing estate behind the church. Athos had only been here once before, and that had been in daylight, so he hoped fervently he had the right house as he leaned on the bell.

Eventually a light came on upstairs and then in the hall, and the door was thrown open to reveal an irate looking Sylvie wearing a hastily tied robe.

Whatever she'd been about to shout at her midnight visitors died on her lips as she took in the sight of the two rain-soaked men in pyjamas on her doorstep.

"You know, trick-or-treating was last month."

"Very funny. Can we come in?" Porthos asked gruffly.

She raised her eyebrows but didn't argue, stepping back to let them both inside.

"What happened?"

"Tree fell on the house," Porthos explained, Athos having gone a little glassy-eyed again. "Sorry to bother you. We didn't have a phone, and Athos said - "

"Uh, yeah, no, of course. It's fine." Sylvie waved them to the couch and went to fill the kettle. She fetched them some towels and a blanket and gave Athos a dubious look. "Is he okay?"

"I think it's just shock," Porthos sighed. "Neither of us were hurt. Once he's warmed up he should be fine. Could I use your phone?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll get it. And, I'll sort out a bed. My housemate's away, so you can grab her room, she won't mind."

"Thank you."

Lying together in the darkness later, Porthos hugged Athos close and hoped he'd made the right call. He figured quiet and warmth would be better for Athos right now than calling out a doctor and making him suffer an examination or offers of medication. The little house had become a sanctuary for Athos from a lot of the pain he'd been through, and to have it so rudely smashed open must have come as a huge shock to his system. Porthos just hoped it wasn’t too much for him to cope with.

–

"Porthos?"

Porthos blinked awake to find Athos peering at him across the pillow, looking thankfully more focussed than he had the night before.

"Hey." He smiled, and was relieved when Athos smiled back, even if he looked confused.

"Where are we?"

"Sylvie's place. Her housemate's room."

"Lynne?" Athos looked more bemused than ever. "And...what did we do with Lynne?"

"She's away. Sylvie said she wouldn't mind." Porthos sat up, concerned that Athos didn't seem to remember and wondering anxiously how far that extended, although he didn't seem overly surprised to find they weren't in their own bed.

"Sorry. Last night's all a bit of a blur." Athos sat up too and rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

Porthos looked around for a clock. "Seven. I'd best get going, I made some calls last night. Arranged to meet some people, check out the damage."

"I'll come too."

Porthos hesitated. "You should stay here. Get a decent breakfast, stay in the warm."

"I'm fine." Athos reached out and took his hand. "Really. I need to see how much of a mess it is. And – it'll be my insurance that needs claiming on, so – yeah. I need to be there."

"I'm sorry," Porthos said softly, rubbing Athos' knuckles with his thumb.

"What for?"

"You don't deserve for this to happen."

"Better us than someone else less able to cope I suppose."

Porthos snorted. "Martyr."

Athos smiled. "Shut up."

They kissed each other slowly, until Porthos sighed and pulled back. "We'd best get going. Besides, I'm guessing Lynne's unwitting generosity may not extend to having two strange men screw in her bed."

–

Half an hour later they were standing outside their house staring up at the carnage. Sylvie had found a pair of waterproof trousers that Athos had put on over his pyjamas but nothing had fitted Porthos and he was keen to get at his wardrobe – although that looked like it was going to be a problem.

In daylight it was even worse than they'd feared, with most of the roof smashed in and even some of the front wall broken down by the weight of the tree. Porthos had pulled a few late night strings to get a tree surgeon and a structural engineer to meet them here and was now wishing he hadn't as both were forbidding him to go anywhere near it and certainly not inside.

"I need my stuff!"

"Anything in there worth dying for?" asked the engineer mildly, and Porthos growled.

The impending argument was averted by a car pulling up in the lane behind them and Anne Bourbon climbing out, looking alarmed.

"Oh my God! What happened?"

"What does it look like happened?" Porthos retorted, and Athos punched him in the arm.

"We have a little storm damage," Athos said. "You'll have to excuse Porthos, his pyjamas aren't doing much to protect his assets and it's still quite nippy this morning."

For the first time Anne registered the way they were both dressed. "Oh you poor things. Wait, do you have somewhere to go?"

Athos shrugged. "We were going to see if they had a room free at the pub."

"Come and stay at the Manor," Anne said quickly. "There's plenty of room, we're quiet at the moment. And I'm guessing you'll need somewhere for a while," she added, looking the damage over.

"That's very kind of you," Athos said cautiously. "Are you sure?"

"Definitely." Anne gave him a brisk smile. "So you guys want a lift?"

–

An hour later they were ensconced in a room at the newly opened Owlbrook Manor boutique hotel, and after a full English breakfast and a hot shower were both feeling somewhat more human. They were both dressed in the branded polo shirts and trousers that the Manor's staff wore.

"Does this mean we're on the payroll?" Porthos laughed, looking down at himself dubiously.

"I suspect it does," Athos agreed. "Although more in the finding Aramis sense, than waiting tables."

Porthos winced. "You think she wants us here to make sure we stay on the case?"

"Careful. You're becoming as cynical as me." Athos kissed him. "Are you going in to work?"

"Yeah, I need to. I'll pick us up some new clothes and stuff while I'm at it. What about you?"

"Might as well." Athos gave him a rueful smile. "At least I can use my phone and computer there to start sorting the paperwork."

–

"Congratulations, sir. I hear you're getting gay-married."

Halfway across the outer office Porthos looked down at Marcheaux who was leaning back in his chair and looking pleased with himself, and briefly considered tipping him backwards out of it. He'd kept news of his impending nuptials fairly quiet at work, deciding it was nobody's business but his, but judging from the colour d'Artagnan was turning in the background he'd clearly let it slip.

"Thank you sergeant, very kind of you," was all he said, knowing perfectly well that Marcheaux would love nothing better than for him to rise to the bait and insist he was getting married-married. He walked into his office and shut the door, meaning he missed the fact that the person following him into the room had slapped Marcheaux round the back of the head.

"Ow! What?" Marcheaux glared indignantly at Elodie, who sat down at the desk facing his and turned on her computer.

"You know what. Why do you wind him up like that?"

Marcheaux shrugged. "He's marrying a dick. And I don't just mean in an anatomical sense."

"What's wrong with Athos?" Elodie frowned.

"Lawyer, ain't he? Why would you marry one of them?"

Elodie rolled her eyes. "You mean he once made you look like an arse and you've held a grudge ever since."

"Have you noticed the number of suspicious deaths in that village?" Marcheaux went on, ignoring her. "And he's always at the centre of it. You mark my words, one day he'll be up to his neck in something, and I'll be the one who fingers him."

"I'd leave that to the boss if I were you," Elodie murmured under her breath, and watched with considerable satisfaction as Marcheaux promptly choked on his coffee.

–

"Sorry sir." D'Artagnan had brought Porthos in a coffee as a peace offering, and was relieved when Porthos just shrugged philosophically.

"I've got nothing to be ashamed of," he replied. "No reason they shouldn't know."

"Are you going to have a stag do?"

Porthos blinked. "I dunno. Hadn't thought about it. It's not till after Christmas anyway."

"Could be good for the team," d'Artagnan said encouragingly. "Building relationships and all that."

"Yeah." Porthos looked dubious. He could just imagine what Marcheaux's idea of funny stag do pranks would extend to, and resolved there and then to avoid it if at all humanly possible. "Anyway, like I say it's a way off. Got other things to think about right now."

"Is everything alright?" D'Artagnan registered for the first time that rather than his usual crisp white shirt Porthos was wearing a hotel-branded polo shirt.

"Not really. We had a bit of an incident last night. Tree fell on the house."

"Christ." D'Artagnan stared at him, wide-eyed. "You both okay?"

"Yeah." Porthos hoped that was true. "It's a mess though, and we can't get in there yet until they've made it safe. We're staying at Owlbrook Manor for now."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "Hope there's no murders this time."

"Funny you should say that. There's something I need you to look into. You got much on?"

"There's the electrical outages thing, but I can pass that over to Marcheaux if you need me?"

Porthos nodded. "You know Aramis, yeah?"

"Yes of course." D'Artagnan had met the vicar on several occasions and liked him, although hadn't yet had much chance to get to know him well.

"It's possible he's gone missing."

"Wasn't he about to get married as well?"

"Next week, yeah. His bride-to-be's understandably concerned, he's not been seen or heard of for two days, with no explanation."

"You don't think he's just...?" d'Artagnan made a walking gesture with his fingers.

"Unlikely he'd bail on his job at the same time," Porthos mused. "But we can't rule it out. If he has there's nothing we can do about it, but we can at least establish if he's safe and well."

"He and Athos are quite close, aren't they?"

Porthos nodded. "Which is another reason I want this sorted quickly. Athos had one hell of a shock last night, I don't want him more stressed than he needs to be." D'Artagnan nodded and Porthos was grateful he didn't need to elaborate. D'Artagnan knew Athos' history of sedative dependency, and could be relied upon to be both supportive and discreet.

–

Returning to the Manor that evening with a bagful of new shirts, trousers, underwear and toiletries for them both, Porthos was relieved to find Athos in reasonably good spirits, if looking rather tired.

"So. What's the verdict?" Porthos asked, after kissing him hello.

"The good news, it's fixable and the insurance will cover it. The bad news – we can't live there in the meantime, at least not until the structural bits have been sorted. I spoke to Anne, she's happy for us to stay here as long as we need, but it's going to be months rather than weeks so we might want to look at renting a flat or something."

"Bugger." Porthos had given up his flat in Crossley when he'd moved in full-time with Athos. "Oh well, it could be worse."

Athos nodded slowly. "It could have been a lot worse."

"How do you mean?"

"The tree guy, Mark? He went in to assess what he'd need to do for the removal. He said – he said the main force of the trunk came down right over the bed. Broke it clean in half. If either of us had still been in it at the time – we'd be dead."

Porthos looked shaken. "Jeez."

"Yeah."

"Good thing we – " he broke off, frowning. "The smoke alarm. Christ, if that hadn't woken us up...?"

"Yeah." Athos gave him a meaningful look. "We'd be cat food right now."

"I guess it was the vibrations of the tree roots pulling loose that set it off."

Athos half-nodded in non-committal agreement but said nothing. He'd ventured his theories about the possibility the cottage was haunted before, and while Porthos had always humoured him, Athos had never really formed the impression that he believed him. He didn't want to sound crazy. He'd been there too often before.

–

They dined early and retreated guiltily to their room to avoid further questioning from Anne, both having drawn a blank on the whereabouts of Aramis with both official and unofficial enquiries.

They climbed into bed with the bottle of wine Athos had bought in the village and settled in with a sigh, their disturbed night catching up with them.

"Are you going to have a stag do?" Porthos asked, contemplating his wine glass sleepily.

"I'm not sure. I was thinking about it. I guess the people I'd want to invite would be Constance, Sylvie – maybe Ninon." Athos smiled. "Does that make it more of a hen night?"

"I think it's more about you than the guests," Porthos laughed.

"Fair enough. Are you having one?"

"Dunno. Wasn't going to bother, but d'Artagnan seems to have let it slip at work, so I might have to."

"Just don't get arrested, eh?" Athos teased, then sighed. "Doesn't feel right planning something without Aramis."

"He'll turn up." Porthos put an arm around him. "Sure to."

Athos pulled back. "Do you believe that, or are you just being comforting?"

Porthos looked awkward. "Truth is, the longer it goes, the more likely it is something's happened to him. I know Anne thinks he's been spirited away somewhere against his will, but that just doesn't happen, you know? I've never worked on a single case of actual kidnapping in all my time on the force. Alright, maybe the occasional custody battle, but a grown man? Nah."

"So you think he's had an accident?"

Porthos stayed silent, and Athos looked at him. "What? What are you not saying?"

"If he'd had a prang in the car, chances are we'd know about it by now. But if he'd just parked up quietly somewhere and – well."

Athos went cold. "You're thinking – clothes on the beach type scenario," he said flatly.

"Yeah."

"No. Not Aramis."

"I'd like to think not," Porthos said unhappily. "But I've dealt with too many suicides whose family and friends swore there was nothing wrong to know you just can't tell. People are good at hiding stuff. And more than one of those was getting married too."

Athos was shaking his head, slowly and stubbornly. "No. I don't believe that. I can't believe that. Aramis has always had this - this kind of - conviction about him. That however bad things were, they'd always get better, that it was always worth fighting for. Faith, I suppose. But he's always had words for me when things were bleak. I have to believe he wouldn't just give up. Because if he can't cope with life? Then what chance do I have?"

Porthos looked at him, shaken. "Athos are you okay?"

"I - yes, I - just think this thing with the house has thrown me a bit," Athos admitted. "It almost feels like a violation. Does that sound stupid?"

"No. Not at all. Is there anything I can do?"

Athos shook his head. "I'm okay. For now. I just - if Aramis isn't? I might not be."

"Come here." Porthos held out his arms and Athos leaned into them, letting Porthos hold him tight for a good long while before pulling back with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry."

"Don't be." Porthos pulled him in again, kissing him lightly on the lips. "I love you," he said softly.

Athos managed a half-smile. "Good thing I agreed to marry you then really."

Porthos gave a bark of laughter, recognising that Athos was already regretting his moment of vulnerability and pulling his shields firmly back into place. "Isn't it just."

–

The following day Athos went to find the churchwarden, who seemed to be the last person who'd spoken to Aramis. He established Aramis had driven out of Owlbrook heading for Mayfield St Margaret, and that was the last anybody had seen of him.

He knew Anne had already been out there and that Aramis’ car hadn’t been found, but needing to feel useful Athos caught the bus over to the next village. There he found the church was locked up and its car park empty and felt rather silly, wondering what he’d expected to achieve. With an hour and a half until the next bus back to Owlbrook, Athos wandered over to the pub. Walking past the pub car park he noticed something that made him pause, and he went inside with fresh resolve.  
"Excuse me - my name's Athos de la Fere, I'm a solicitor, I live over in Owlbrook. I'm not sure if you've heard, but the vicar here, Reverend d'Herblay? He's gone missing."

"I had heard something to that effect. True then is it?" asked the landlord curiously. 

"Seems to be. I was wondering - your CCTV camera in the car park, does the angle pick up the church at all?"

"Reckon it might," mused the landlord. "In the corner of shot, like." He looked at Athos dubiously. "You’d have to sit through days of it though?"

"No, I know roughly the time he should've arrived, if he made it this far. I suppose I just want to know if he ever got here really. Trying to trace his movements."

"Well, you're welcome to have a look. Keeps a week's worth of footage it does, then automatically writes over it. Only got it in case of damage to the cars you know, there's nobody watching the live feed."

"That's alright. If I could?" Athos was relieved, there was nothing obliging the man to show him the footage, and he might have had to go through Porthos for an official request. But it seemed Aramis was well-liked, and the landlord was keen to help. 

–

Leaving Mayfield, Athos stayed on the bus all the way to Crossley and met Porthos in a café opposite the police station for lunch.

"What have you got?" Porthos asked, sensing the air of contained excitement about him. Athos had texted him from the bus to arrange the meeting but not said any more than that he had a potential lead.

"He made it to Mayfield," Athos said animatedly, having explained about the camera footage. "Pretty much bang on time if he went straight there after seeing the churchwarden. You can just see his car go across the top of the picture."

"Sure it's his?" Porthos asked dubiously.

"Yes. There's a better shot later. Because he's only in the church about ten minutes, then comes out again and heads south past the pub, where the camera picks up the car perfectly. It's only a flash, but it's definitely his car, and looks like he's on his own."

"And that helps us how?"

Athos took out his phone and pulled up a map. "Alright. He was heading this way - so he must have been going somewhere in this sector." Athos indicated a wedge of countryside between finger and thumb.

"How'd you figure that?" Porthos frowned, trying to see his reasoning.

"Because if he was going anywhere further east he'd have gone a different way out of Mayfield and anywhere west he'd have gone back towards Owlbrook – but he didn't, he went south." Athos gestured at the map. "So arguably he must have been heading somewhere in this area. Which is a few villages over the South Downs and – oh." Athos scrolled the map further along and deflated a little. "And Brighton." 

That was quite an area to search but Porthos shook his head, picking up his enthusiasm.

"No, see, if he was heading for Brighton he'd still have gone east out of Mayfield, picked up the main road. It's a bit further, but much quicker. So on that basis you can reduce it down again." Porthos studied the map and after a moment's thought indicated another theoretical line east-west, reducing Athos' original sector to half the size.

"That's still a huge area to search," Athos said glumly. "Any number of villages and - no, hang on." He took the phone back again, frowning over the map. "If we assume he was going to see someone then it was likely a parishioner - where's the parish boundary?"

"Search me."

Athos searched google instead, and managed to come up with a boundary plan. "Here, it runs just this side of the Downs. That's more manageable as a search area, surely?"

Porthos looked hesitant and Athos sighed. "Now what?"

"It shouldn't be down to budget when someone's life is maybe at stake, but it so often does. If I put a couple of uniforms on checking even just the car parks and lay-bys in this area that's going to be a couple of days' work at least. Not cheap when money's so tight. And technically he's not been gone long enough or been classed as a high enough risk to justify the expenditure. Especially if it comes out in a later audit that he's a personal friend."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Porthos shrugged. "Just saying."

"You'll do it anyway?"

"Course I will."

Athos smiled.

–

Arriving back at the hotel Athos went to find Anne to give her the hopefully encouraging news that they’d identified a likely area and Porthos was making arrangements to start searching in earnest. 

Eventually he found her sitting alone at the long table in the kitchen, head in her hands. She didn't look up when he came in, and once he was sure she knew he was there, Athos laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"How are you bearing up?"

She looked up at him, face tear-stained but obstinate. "Do you believe Aramis has left me?" 

Athos hesitated, lowering himself into the chair next to her. He hadn't expected such a blunt question, and was wary of giving her false hope.

"No. No, I don't."

She sagged in relief. "Thank God. I thought you'd just think I was fooling myself if I said so."

"Aramis is a lot of things, but not a coward. If he'd found someone else, I think he'd at least have had the decency to tell you. And he wouldn't walk out on the Church in this way, either."

"So you agree something's happened to him?"

"It's certainly looking that way," Athos sighed. 

"You'll find him?"

"We'll find him," Athos promised, considerably more confidently than he felt.

–

The next development came unexpectedly early the next morning. Porthos received the call as he was putting on his coat to leave for work, and turned to Athos with a cautious expression, not quite sure if it was good news or bad.

"They've found Aramis' car."

"Who? Where?" Athos demanded, gripped by a sudden chill.

"Car park up on the Downs. Near some hillfort or other. Lady who walks her dog there noticed it hadn't moved for several days, called it in. Otherwise we'd probably not have found it for weeks."

"It wasn't in the area you were looking?"

"Right direction, just a bit further on," Porthos said. "Falls in Brighton's jurisdiction after all." He studied the map link he'd been sent, pointing to a small blue P. "Here. You were spot on with your reckoning, only he'd gone a bit further than the parish boundary."

"Any sign of him?"

"No reports of anything, just the car. Locked up and left." Porthos looked at him narrowly. "You want to go out there?"

"Please." Athos looked relieved, and Porthos nodded. "Come on then."

It took them half an hour of winding through narrow roads and up onto the steep ridge of the South Downs. The car park was at the end of a single track lane, just a gravelled area with space for about ten cars. The only other one there was Aramis' Volvo, parked neatly under a tree as if he'd just stepped away and surrounded by police tape.

"They'll put up signs, appealing for info," Porthos said, as Athos stood staring helplessly at the car. "Popular spot, someone may have seen him."

Athos nodded silently.

"You want to take a walk?" Porthos offered, indicating the one footpath that lead up onto the ridge. Athos nodded again, and Porthos reached out to take his hand. His fingers were cold, and Porthos squeezed them comfortingly.

The steep path wound between deep earth banks, then out into a wide flat area, slightly humped. Huge beech trees grew around the perimeter, and a flattened path lead off in both directions, clearly a haunt of dog walkers.

Porthos started off to the right, only to be drawn back by a tug on his hand, Athos leading them to the left instead. "Not that way."

"Why not?" Porthos fell into step with him, happy to go wherever Athos wanted, but curious as to his reasoning.

"Do you know the story of this place?"

"No?"

"It's said if you walk seven times widdershins you see - well, the less disturbing story says the ghosts of a lost Roman legion."

"And the more disturbing?"

"Satan himself."

"Well I wasn't exactly planning on doing seven laps," Porthos pointed out, noticing that Athos was very firmly leading them clockwise instead." You don't actually believe that crap do you?"

"Of course not." Athos gave him a fleeting smile. "But what's the point in tempting fate?"

They walked on, hand in hand and braced against the icy November wind, neither entirely sure what they were looking for.

"Do you think he came up here?" Athos asked finally.

"Honestly? No," said Porthos. "He wasn't dressed for a muddy walk as far as we know, and the weather that day was atrocious. We've got a dog team mobilising to search the area in case he's rolled into a ditch somewhere, but it looks to me like he came here to meet someone. Someone he knew. There's no signs of violence, he locked his car and just - vanished."

"If he was lying out here the night of that storm - "

"If he's out here, we'll find him. But I don't reckon he is."

"You didn't think he'd been abducted before."

"Doesn't mean he was. He could have gone off with someone of his own free will. He might be shacked up in a Brighton hotel oblivious to all the fuss."

Athos was silent for a while, processing the implications of this. _Had_ Aramis had another woman? Most people had their secrets, didn't they.

"This dog team," he said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Would that include Sanjit?"

Porthos considered claiming ignorance of the details, but in the end opted for honesty.

"Yep. Elodie's dealing with them though. I've not spoken to him. Not likely to either, unless he turns up something untoward."

Athos just nodded. Nothing had ever happened between Porthos and Sanjit, but one drunken night it had been a close run thing, and Porthos had confessed as much.

Porthos wondered what he was thinking, and whether to say something more or if that would look like he was labouring it too much.

"Let's go home." Athos cut across his thoughts and Porthos relaxed slightly.

"If you want?"

"I'm getting cold, and we're not achieving anything out here."

Porthos belatedly realised Athos was shivering, his raincoat doing little to keep out the bitter wind. He took off his scarf and wound it round Athos' neck, ignoring his spluttered protests.

"If you dressed properly in the first place you'd be warmer, wouldn't you?" he grinned, noting how Athos snuggled into the woolly coils, making no attempt to take it off again despite his objections.

"What happens now?" Athos asked, ignoring his jibe.

"First, we redirect the officers assigned to the search to concentrate on this area. House to house where we can, they're mostly big old detached places. See if anyone knows him, or has seen him. Secondly, I've got an appointment with his old CO. Nobody I've spoken to in the Church seemed to have the faintest idea why he might have disappeared but then I remembered he used to be in the army. It got me thinking. Maybe there’s something there."

"You think he's running from someone?" Athos asked in surprise.

"It's possible. Or with them," Porthos added, more cautiously. "He ever mention any exes to you?" he asked.

"No, never." Athos frowned. "He never talks about his life before Owlbrook much at all, now I come to think of it." Waiting for Porthos to unlock the car he shivered, burrowing his nose into the wool of the scarf and the faint scent of Porthos himself. "What if he really is being held prisoner somewhere?"

"Then we’ll find him," Porthos said firmly. "Whatever’s happened to him he can’t be far away."

–

The heat was the first thing he noticed. Desert heat, dry and stifling and joltingly familiar before he was even fully conscious. The noise only came afterwards, filtering in slowly as if someone was turning up the volume.

Aramis blinked painfully, trying to swallow. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and his throat was parched and sore. He struggled to sit up, taking in his surroundings. He was lying on a thin mattress on a wooden boarded floor. Walls and ceiling too were rough wooden slats, and there was a thin layer of dry grit over everything.

"What the fuck?" Aramis shook his head, trying to clear the fog. The noise, up to now a confused dull roar in his ears was resolving into distant shouting and marching feet, and the spluttering whine of a generator. A sudden clatter of helicopter blades made him instinctively duck, the light dipping as if a shadow had passed overhead.

It was at this point as he tried to roll off the mattress that he discovered he was chained to the floor. Heavy duty manacles were attached to each ankle and bolted to a substantial metal plate.

Sweating already, his clothes more suited to an English winter, Aramis pulled ineffectively at the chains, but he felt weak and dizzy. Louder shouting passed by outside and he finally realised why he couldn’t understand what was being said. It wasn’t in English.

"No. This can’t be." The feeling of de ja vu was threatening to overwhelm him, but none of this could possibly be happening. In the army he’d done his time in the Middle East and it was a period of his life he’d have been entirely happy to forget. There was no way he could be back there, it made no sense apart from anything else.

Trying to sort out his muddled thoughts wasn’t easy with the heat and the cacophony outside, but Aramis tried to work out the last thing he remembered. He’d been going to Mayfield – no, he’d been to Mayfield, he’d gone on from there, why had that been – a phone call. He’d had a message asking him to meet a parishioner on the Downs, someone in urgent need of a sympathetic ear, who wanted to be away from anyone who might see him.

He had a memory of a windswept car park, pacing around the muddy puddles trying to keep warm, wondering if he was in the right place with no sign of the person he was expecting. A fleeting impression of someone behind him. And then – nothing. How long ago had that been?

Aramis felt his chin, startled by the amount of growth. Two days? Three? How long had he been unconscious? Long enough to have been taken out of England, his brain supplied uncomfortably. Long enough to have been taken _back_.

It wasn’t possible he protested weakly to himself, but here was surely incontrovertible proof. It wasn’t a dream; the manacles, the heat, the noise all proved that. The noise made it hard to think straight, every so often there would be a clatter of gunfire and Aramis flinched, instincts overriding everything else. The flimsy look of the shack he was in suggested it wouldn’t protect him if it came under fire. He couldn’t reach the walls from where he was chained, presumably intentionally so that he couldn’t tear his way out.

The only things within reach were a pitcher of unpleasantly warm water and a bucket, the single concession to sanitation. Aramis held out as long as he could, but it had been at least forty eight hours and eventually he had to use it, grateful at least that he was alone. He assumed he was alone. Was he being watched? It was an uncomfortable thought, but there was nothing he could do about it. He considered shouting, but shrank away from it. The longer he was left undisturbed surely the better. Drawing attention was unlikely to improve things for him. He must have been brought here for a reason, although what that might be he had no idea. He was a vicar in a small English village, nobody could have any reason for wanting him this badly. Nobody living, anyway.

He shuddered. Perhaps he was in Hell. No, that was stupid, and a dangerous way to start thinking. He was alive, and that meant there was hope.

For now, at least.

–

DS Marcheaux was enjoying himself. When d’Artagnan had dumped his current caseload on him in favour of trailing an errant vicar he’d initially been pissed off, but it was proving unexpectedly entertaining. The south coast had been suffering a series of unplanned power outages over the last few weeks, and despite the best efforts of the utility supplier to keep it quiet and deal with it in-house, they’d finally been forced to call in the police and admit that someone was committing acts of sabotage. 

The level of access required meant it had to be someone on the inside, and d’Artagnan had left meticulous notes and a list of suspects, suggesting they should be kept under careful surveillance. 

Marcheaux, favouring the direct approach and entirely willing to take the credit for an arrest based on d’Artagnan’s hard work, had simply looked up the most likely suspect, a man called Peter Elliott, and marched in to interrogate him. 

"Look, we sympathise," said Elodie, trying to sound approachable and confiding. "Everybody wants to save the planet."

"It's the methods that leave a lot to be desired," Marcheaux drawled. He'd been leaning back, hands behind his head and suddenly snapped forwards, slamming his hands flat on the desk and making Elliott jump. "Cut the power to half the county, and damn the consequences eh? Give any thought to the people relying on that supply, or is that just collateral damage? Small businesses going broke cos they've lost frozen stock? Undertakers finding their cold storage is suddenly warming up? How about the hospitals, if the dead don't bother you? Turn off the power to intensive care, maybe the neonatal unit? You care if all the little babies die Elliott?"

"Those places have back up supplies, we checked - " Elliott abruptly looked like he could bite his tongue off, but Marcheaux was sitting back again looking smug, apparent anger gone in a flash.

Elodie hid a smile. Marcheaux's interrogation technique largely appeared to consist of irritating suspects into incriminating themselves, and she'd seen it work more than once.

Now he flipped ostentatiously back several pages in his notebook. "Why don't we take this from the top?"

Slumped in apparent defeat, Elliott looked from Marcheaux to Elodie and back then shot to his feet, shoving the table towards them and hurling himself out of the door, slamming it behind him.

Marcheaux stared after him in affront, then groaned in disgust. "Oh, bollocks."

They extricated themselves from between the table and the wall and set off in pursuit. It became apparent that Elliott was headed for the restricted area, but by the time they reached it he'd passed through the secure access and disappeared.

"Police. Let us through." Marcheaux held up his ID but the man on the gate just stared at them.

"I don't care if you're Santa Claus, you can't go in there, it's restricted. Danger of death."

"Danger of my boot up your - " Marcheaux started and Elodie hastily raised her voice above him.

"Did Peter Elliott come through here? Because you know these outages you've been having? It's him been causing him and if we don't catch up to him and there's another one then it'll be all your fault."

"Look, I can't let you in there unaccompanied, I don't care who you are."

"Then fucking accompany us!" Marcheaux roared at him. After a moment's grudging consideration of this the man finally swiped them through with dire imprecations not to touch anything, and they ran in amongst the transformers.

Elodie wondered if it was just her imagination that the air was buzzing. It felt like her hair was standing on end, and there was a menacing background hum. Their reluctant guide led them through a forest of pylons and distribution boxes towards the main switch house, which was a fibreglass box the size of a barn.

The door was standing open and Marcheaux went in first, albeit with a certain amount of caution in case Elliott was standing behind the door with a wrench.

He was at the far end, a large metal cabinet standing open and his hand on a breaker.

"Hey!" The gate man yelled in alarm at what he was seeing just as Elliott hauled down the switch. Elodie flinched, anticipating an explosion, but all that happened was the lights went out. By the dim green glow of emergency lighting Marcheaux tackled Elliott to the ground, as outside they became aware of blaring alarms and running feet.

By the time they’d handcuffed him, the main lights had come back on and Elodie looked up in surprise.

"Is that it? All he managed?"

The guard was shaking his head dolefully. "No, this is from the local back up generator. He threw the emergency cut off. Bastard’s just managed to take down the power to the entire local grid, and you can’t just throw it all back on at once, it’s got to be managed. It’ll take fucking _ages_."

–

"What?" 

Groggily, Aramis raised his head in the sudden silence, braced for the wall of noise to hit him again. He wondered briefly if he'd gone deaf, then realised he could hear the sound of the chain scraping against the wooden floor as he moved.

He’d lost track of how long he’d been lying there, drifting in and out of consciousness. He’d drunk the water, or at least he thought he had, but the pitcher was full again. Had someone come in? Was it drugged? Nothing made sense any more, least of all the incessant heat and noise. Perhaps he’d gone mad, he thought. Surely at some point night would fall, there would be respite from the worst of it, but the hours – days? – dragged by and there was never any change. 

Until now.

The harsh desert sunlight falling between the ceiling slats had gone, but a glimmer of softer light remained around the boarded window, and Aramis realised the oppressive heat had gone too. It was still far too hot, but the temperature had fallen abruptly as if – as if it had been turned off. He realised the noise and the heat and the light had all ceased at the same moment.

He dragged himself into a sitting position, listening intently for any clue while realising this could be in itself part of some torture, designed to lower his defences before exposing him to the bombardment again.

In the silence he finally made out a distant sound, a trill of notes somewhere beyond the boarded window, repeated over and over, and at once utterly familiar and utterly incongruous.

"That's..." Aramis blinked, listening to the sound closely, wondering if he really had gone mad, and finally coming to the conclusion that actually, he hadn’t. Although someone clearly wanted him to think so.

"That's a robin. That's a fucking robin. I'm still in England." He dragged himself to his feet, lunging towards the door only to be brought up short by the chains. "I'm in England," he yelled. "I never fucking left. Can you hear me out there? I know what you're doing you bastards! I know!"

Several minutes of yelling produced no result, and Aramis looked round frantically for something to reaffirm his sudden realisation. The robin had stopped singing, possibly scared away by his shouting, and he had a pang of regret.

How to reach the edge of the room. The chain wouldn't let him, but – Aramis made a decision and upended the soil bucket, climbing onto the upturned pail and reaching up to the ceiling. This way his fingers just reached the rough wooden slats and he tore at them, heedless of splinters and cuts. He finally succeeded in tearing down a section, bringing with it a tangle of wires, heat bulbs and speakers, and exposing not the scorching desert sky, but the artexed plaster of a bog standard British bedroom ceiling.

Aramis staggered back down as his knees gave out, collapsing to the floor as far from the mess from the bucket as he could get. He wasn't mad. He had to cling to that. Also he was still in the country, which meant there was a chance someone could find him. And surely, by now, they would be looking.

–


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos rose as the door opened to admit a large man in uniform. Grey hair and a salt-and-pepper beard framed cold eyes, but he held out a hand for Porthos to shake.

"Inspector DuVallon? Colonel Savoy."

"Thank you for seeing me sir. I appreciate you must be busy."

"Then I trust you will get directly to the point. You said something about a missing man?"

"Yes sir. Aramis d'Herblay. I understand he served under you, although some years ago now," Porthos began, conscious that the man must have been responsible for hundreds of soldiers over the years and the name might need context, but Savoy already had a look of startled recognition.

"Herblay? Yes, I remember him, of course. Not one of the battalion's finest hours that," he murmured, and finally waved Porthos to a seat. "Missing, you say? You suspect foul play, presumably, or you wouldn't be here."

"Yes. It's not impossible that he's gone away somewhere of his own accord, but it seems unlikely in the circumstances. He was due to get married, you see."

Savoy raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be the first man to do a runner from that. Still, if it seems unlikely… What was his mental state like?"

"Seemed fine. He seemed happy – happier than usual in fact, as you might expect."

Savoy gave Porthos an interrogative stare. "You knew the man personally?"

"Yes. He's our local vicar."

This surprised a bark of laughter out of the man, but he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, of course, he became a chaplain afterwards. I'd forgotten that."

"After what sir, if you don't mind my asking?" This was the second time the Colonel had alluded to some event Aramis had been involved in, and Porthos' curiosity was rising.

Savoy was looking wary now. "I'm not sure that's relevant."

"It could be. If there's someone who means him harm - well I'll be honest, we've drawn a blank in his current relationships. Which is why we started wondering if there might be something further back. He's never particularly mentioned his army days. You asked me earlier what frame of mind he was in. Did you have a particular reason for thinking he might be disturbed at all?"

"We prefer not to wash our dirty laundry in public."

"I understand that. But if anything you know could have a bearing on what's happened to him?"

Savoy considered him blankly for a long moment then blew out a sigh. "It was a long time ago now. And frankly, if you're looking for someone from his past to pin this on then you're out of luck. There is a name that comes to mind, but the man's dead. The only reason I asked about his mental state was the possible long-term effects of trauma. We see it all too frequently, unfortunately."

"He was on active duty?"

"Yes. Deployed - well, I can't be too specific. Let's just say Middle East, shall we? I was Lieutenant Colonel at the time. Herblay's unit was caught in an ambush, left for dead. There were only two survivors."

"What happened to the other one?"

Savoy rubbed his chin ruminatively. "This isn't technically a matter of official record."

"It'll go no further unless it's of direct consequence," Porthos promised.

"It isn't. It can't be, I tell you the man's dead. It affected both of them, as you can imagine. Not just physically, but the survivor's guilt. Herblay dealt with it by finding God. His comrade - went the other way. Hell-bent on revenge, increasingly bitter. He started planning an attack - not a sanctioned action, and I'll deny this if you repeat it, but he intended to take out a village where we understood the man we were after was being harboured. It might even have worked, but it would have taken out a lot of innocent people at the same time."

"You found out what he was planning?"

Savoy hesitated. "He'd confided in someone. They gave him away, unable to reconcile the collateral slaughter of women and children."

"Aramis," Porthos guessed.

"Yes."

"So this guy might bear a grudge?" Porthos continued animatedly.

"Not any more," Savoy said grimly. "Before he could face a court martial he walked out into the village and blew up the guy we were after. And himself with it."

"You're sure?"

"Not the kind of thing you miss."

"I mean, you're sure he died?" Porthos pressed. "You saw the body?"

"Body? There was barely enough left to send home in a bucket."

Porthos sighed. He'd been sure for a moment that he was onto something.

"I'm sorry Inspector. You've had a wasted journey. The only threat from Herblay’s past you're likely to find here is his own sense of guilt."

"I thought you said his faith had helped with that."

"Not guilt over surviving the attack. The sense that he'd betrayed his friend. They were close, you see. Aramis felt responsible, for the way he died. I think it was why he left the army in the end. Maybe it just all finally got too much for him to cope with."

"I see. Well, thank you for your time." Rising to leave, Porthos turned back soberly. "You never said - what was his name, the one who died?"

–

"Marsac?" Aramis stared up from the floor in utter astonishment.

The door had swung open and the figure staring down at Aramis looked at the mess he'd made of the ceiling and latrine bucket.

"What a state. I'm not cleaning it up. You'll have to live with it."

"Marsac what the hell?" Aramis was torn by a mess of conflicting emotions. To discover the friend he'd thought dead was not only alive but also apparently responsible for keeping him here in such disorienting torture was making his head spin more than ever.

"Did you miss me?"

"Miss you? I thought you were dead! Where have you been?"

"Waiting."

"Waiting? What for?"

Marsac gave him blank eyes. "This. Opportunity. Confluence."

"Confluence of what?" Aramis repeated helplessly.

"In just a few days it’ll be five years exactly. Did you know that?"

Aramis felt a prickle of superstitious unease. Marsac had the glazed look of a fanatic. For five years he’d believed the man in front of him had blown himself up, and now he knew he still believed him capable of it.

"We shouldn’t have lived, Aramis. It was wrong. I tried to make things right, don’t you see?"

"By killing those responsible?" Aramis ventured. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay reasonable. You can talk your way out of this.

"Yes. I should have gone too back then, but I bottled it." Marsac grimaced with a spasm of violent self-loathing so strong Aramis jumped. "It’s time to make amends for my lack of spine."

"Okay," Aramis said soothingly. "And – I’m here because you want a witness?"

Marsac gave him a chilling smile. "Witness? Oh no. This time you’re coming with me."

–

It was late when Porthos finally got back to the Manor, and Athos greeted him with a certain amount of relief. The hours Porthos worked were often extended and erratic, but right now he was just glad to have him there and know he was safe. He also wanted to broach an idea he’d had.

"I’ve had a thought. The cottage next door to ours – you know it’s been empty and up for sale for ages?"

"Yeah?"

"I had a word with Sylvie, who’s handling the sale, and she’s spoken to the owner. They’d be happy to rent it to us for a few months, while the repairs happen." Athos looked anxiously at him. "Do you think that’s a good idea? We can move our stuff over without much problem, and keep an eye on progress."

Porthos blew out a breath and nodded. "Yeah, I guess – yeah, that makes sense. We can’t stay here that long. Pity I gave up the flat really."

"You never know what the future’s going to bring." Athos gave him a tight smile. "You’re okay with it? If I go ahead?"

Porthos nodded, feeling guilty that he’d left the house problems to Athos to sort out, but Athos’ job was more flexible. "Go for it. Do you need me to do anything?"

"No, I can manage. Gives me something to think about." Another tight smile, that made Porthos want to hug him. The trouble was Athos was always at his spikiest when feeling most vulnerable, and the least inclined to easily accept comfort. Sure enough, when Porthos reached out for him he slid out of reach and went for his phone to call Sylvie at home, as if worried she might give the rental away to someone else overnight.

–

The next morning began with Marcheaux and Elodie standing disconsolately in front of Porthos' desk while he worked through an extensive list of their shortcomings and misdemeanours at some considerable volume. They shuffled their feet and kept their mouths shut, not even daring to exchange a wounded look.

Finally Porthos ran out of things to harangue them with, and instead pulled a typed list off the top of a pile and thrust it at them.

"Here. House to house. Should keep you out of trouble."

Elodie took the sheet, just grateful to escape, but Marcheaux looked indignant. "You what! That's a uniform job."

Porthos glared at him. "And that's where you'll end up if you're not careful."

"Oh come on it wasn't that bad."

"Your ham-fisted approach lost the power to half the fucking county!"

"Big deal, nobody died. It's not like anything blew up."

"The week’s still young," said Porthos grimly. "Now find me Herblay!"

They retreated to the car, Marcheaux muttering darkly and Elodie just relieved that they'd got off with a bollocking. She hadn't been so long out of uniform that the thought of being bounced back there didn't feel like a very real danger, and also Porthos had taken a chance on her and she hated to feel like she might have let him down. On the other hand, it did feel like there wasn't much else they could have done in the circumstances, and Marcheaux's resentful grumbling struck a certain chord.

They spent a tedious day canvassing large houses along the edge of the ridge and finally pulled up in the driveway of a mouldering pile surrounded at the back by trees.

"I don't think anyone's home," said Marcheaux hopefully. "Look, half the windows are boarded up."

"There's a car over there," Elodie pointed out, nodding to the side of a house where the front of a bonnet was just visible.

He sighed, over-dramatically. "You had to notice?"

"Come on." She climbed out, hiding a grin.

Up close the paintwork around the porch and windowframes was peeling and the old flower tubs held nothing but weeds and nettles, but there was a new looking yale lock on the door, and someone had scuffed a path through the weeds in the gravel leading up to it.

Marcheaux banged on the door. "Do you reckon it's haunted? Looks haunted."

Elodie shuddered. "Don't."

He grinned, sensing a new topic to piss her off with when the mood took him. "Probably bodies buried under the floorboards."

"Well let's hope none of them are recent." She leaned over and banged again. There was a faint noise from somewhere and they looked at each other.

"Was that someone shouting?" Elodie wondered.

"Probably just got someone out of the bath." Marcheaux was about to bang again when the door was pulled open and a dishevelled white man stared out at him.

"This is private property! Whatever you're selling I'm not interested." 

"Police." Marcheaux held up his warrant card. "I'm DS Mar-" He got no further than that, as the man looked alarmed, drew his hand out from behind the door and thrust something into his side. There was a buzz, felt as much as heard, and Marcheaux lurched sideways, hit the door frame and crumpled to his knees.

"What did you do?" Elodie took a step back in horror, the instinct to run warring with that to help her colleague. For an awful second she thought he'd been stabbed, then realised it had been a taser. The man dropped the unit, reached back and pulled a gun from his waistband.

"Don't move."

Elodie stared. "Sir – if we can all just calm down, I’m sure we can sort out this misunderstanding." Pleased her voice was steady, and horribly conscious of Marcheaux’s unmoving body at her feet.

"Bring him in."

"What?"

"You heard." The man stepped back, gesturing with the gun. "Inside, both of you."

Elodie knew to go inside would be the stupidest thing she could do, but on the other hand what chance did she have? If she ran he could shoot her, and she could hardly abandon Marcheaux. The thought passed through her head that he’d probably abandon her quite happily, but she quashed it. Sighing inwardly, she bent down and grabbed the collar of Marcheaux’s jacket, dragging him awkwardly over the threshold and into the house.

The downstairs seemed devoid of furniture and she pulled him into an empty living room. The window was boarded over and there was only a faint amount of daylight to see by.

"Turn around. Hands behind your back."

"Sir - "

A shot crashed out, splintering through the window glass and boarding. Elodie couldn’t prevent the yelp of alarm that escaped her, but as the gun came round to point at her again she pinched her lips shut. Don’t provoke him.

"Just in case you thought I might be bluffing. Turn around."

This time Elodie did as she was told, holding her hands behind her as he tied them tightly. At least he hadn’t just shot them both Elodie reasoned, which meant they had a chance of surviving this. Suddenly something covered her head and she cried out in protest, musty cloth covering her mouth and nose.

"Sit down and shut up." A rough hand shoved her and off balance Elodie stumbled, hitting the wall with her shoulder and half sliding to the floorboards. A tug on her bound wrists suggested she was being tied to something else, and then footsteps retreated.

"Hello?"

Silence, but for the creaking of floorboards somewhere overhead.

"Sir? Marcheaux?" Elodie tried to shake the bag off her head, but it had been tied around her neck. She prodded experimentally with her foot, connecting with something soft that she assumed was her unconscious DS. The fact this kick elicited no indignant response worried her. Her only chance of escaping right now hinged on the fact their unknown assailant hadn’t bothered to tie him up.

"George," she hissed, anxious and impatient. "Wake up you twat."

She tried to listen hard enough to catch his breathing but her own heart was thumping too painfully in her ears to do so. He had to be fine, right? He was young and healthy and the shock shouldn’t have affected him too much. In fact he should have come round by now, and that was what was worrying her.

Ears pricked she caught distant voices, raised in anger and tensed again. She’d assumed their assailant had been alone, but clearly not. Were the others friend or foe? Likely to help or pose more of a threat? She was about to try kicking Marcheaux again on the grounds this was all she could feasibly manage, when there came the sound of a loud thump from upstairs, as if someone or something had hit the ground.

The voices had stopped. Elodie listened intently as footsteps came back overhead and down the stairs, this time accompanied by a thumping that suggested something heavy was being dragged. A body? There’d been no shot. Had someone else been tasered? Elodie braced for them to enter the room, but the sinister slithering, dragging noise went past the doorway and a moment later the front door banged and then an engine started up.

She relaxed fractionally, until a groan nearby made her jump. Cursing herself, she realised it was Marcheaux finally coming round.

"Sir? You okay?"

Marcheaux muttered something rude, and stared blearily up at her, surprised to find himself lying on the floor, and then marginally more surprised to find his colleague tied up next to him with what appeared to be a cushion cover over her head.

"What happened?"

"He tased you."

"Fuck." Marcheaux struggled into a sitting position, going dizzy and nearly falling flat on his face. He wriggled closer to Elodie and leaned in, making her squeak.

"What're you doing?!"

"Trying to get this bag off you, shut up." He took hold of the cord and pulled. After a bit of manoeuvring and Elodie complaining he was trying to throttle her, he managed to pull it off and they stared at each other.

"Why the blindfold?" Marcheaux frowned. "We'd already seen his face."

"I think he took something outside. There was a lot of bumping and scraping, it sounded like he dragged something down the stairs. Or someone."

"Someone he didn't want you to see," Marcheaux nodded slowly. "The elusive vicar, presumably."

He looked down at Elodie and grinned. "I knew I'd get to see you tied up one day. Figured the circumstances'd be a bit different though."

"Yeah, well I always figured if you ever got tased it'd be me doing it," Elodie retorted. "I feel cheated."

"I could always leave you tied up," Marcheaux warned, looking happy at the prospect, and she glared at him.

"And I could always kick you in the nuts. Sir."

"Temper, temper." Marcheaux untied her and they both scrambled to their feet, Elodie rubbing her wrists.

"We should do a walk through," Elodie said unenthusiastically. "I heard voices. Someone could be injured up there."

"Thought you reckoned he took them with him?"

"Yeah, but I don’t know that, do I? Could’ve been a heavy bag or something."

"Yeah. Come on then – wait." Marcheaux flung out a hand, barring her progress into the hall. "Can you smell gas?"

Elodie sniffed. "Shit. Yeah. Do you think...?"

"I think we should get out of here."

"But there could be someone upstairs! I’m checking." Elodie made to move past and Marcheaux grabbed at her.

"I’m not fucking around El. I’m your superior officer and I say we get the fuck out of here and wait for back-up."

"And what if someone dies in the meantime because you were too chickenshit to go and look?"

"Better a living coward than a dead hero." Marcheaux kept hold of her wrist and dragged her grimly towards the front door.

"Let go of me you - "

"You do as I say or I put you over my shoulder," Marcheaux warned, throwing open the front door and pushing her outside. "Car. Now."

Seething but frustrated, Elodie did as she was ordered. They almost made it to the car too, before the house blew up.

With a shattering roar that blew them both off their feet, the house exploded, glass and bricks and plaster fountaining into the air and crashing back to earth. Fortunately the main force of the blast seemed to be on the other side, perhaps where the kitchen was, but enough rattled down around them to be dangerous.

Eventually they dared to stand up, finding that where previously had been a house was now a heap of burning stone and rafters.

"Still wish you'd gone upstairs?" Marcheaux enquired.

Elodie stared bleakly at the rubble and blew out a sigh. "Do you think anyone was still in there?"

"Look on the bright side. It won't be us who has to check."

She looked sideways at him. "It's not all good news you know."

"How'd you mean?"

"Well. This does mean we technically haven't managed to go the whole week without blowing something up."

Marcheaux laughed loudly, then frowned when she didn't follow suit. "You do know you're bleeding, right?" he ventured.

She raised blank eyes to meet his, becoming more focussed as she took in what he was saying. "What?"

He reached out to gesture in the vicinity of her face without actually touching, and her own hand followed, coming away sticky.

"Fuck. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I – kind've assumed you'd noticed," he shrugged. "Doesn't it hurt?"

She poked it gingerly and winced. "Well it does _now_."

She swayed slightly, and he looked alarmed. "Sit down, I would."

"I'm fine."

"Sit the fuck down. I'm not having you pass out on me just cause you're trying to butch it out. And I ain't giving you the kiss of life, so don't get any ideas."

"Ugh." Elodie went to sit in the grass a safe distance from the burning remains of the house and Marcheaux took a deep breath and phoned Porthos to break the bad news.

–

"I mean, I don't know what he was so pissed about," Marcheaux complained later, four pints down. "We found his bloke for him, didn't we?"

They'd been checked over by an ambulance crew and proclaimed fit enough to carry on, at which point Porthos had sent them both home after a considerably protracted and angry lecture which they decided on balance meant he was glad they weren't dead but that it was a close run thing. They'd retreated to the pub to nurse their wounds and pride.

"And lost him again," Elodie pointed out. "And we don't actually know it was Herblay being held in there."

"What, you think there's a plague of kidnappers working the south coast now?" Marcheaux snorted.

"You don't think he's dead, do you?" Elodie asked in a slightly smaller voice.

"Thought you reckoned you heard him being taken out?"

"Could have been dragging anything though. A corpse."

"If he's kept him alive this long it's for a reason. Chances are he still is."

Elodie nodded, grateful for the reassurance. Marcheaux wasn't one to sugar-coat anything, so he presumably believed it. She drained her glass and walked unsteadily up to the bar. Normally she didn't try to keep up with heavier drinking colleagues, but some combination of shock and indignation meant she'd so far matched Marcheaux pint for pint.

A couple of hours later they staggered out into the night air, Elodie by this point hanging onto her colleague's arm with a certain level of desperation. The only taxi sitting in the rank flatly refused to take her, and Marcheaux groaned then steered her in the direction of his flat.

Elodie wasn't entirely sure how she'd ended up in Marcheaux's bedroom, but the beer sloshing around her system somehow suggested it was a good idea.

Marcheaux muttered something about taking the sofa, and Elodie said something to the effect that he might as well stay because there was room for both of them, and somehow after that it all got a bit confused.

–

Sunday morning, and consciousness swam back with a reluctance that suggested that while a crashing hangover was unavoidable, if she just didn't move her head it could at least be delayed by another few seconds. Elodie had a moment of panic as she realised she couldn't remember getting home, and then a moment of severely increased panic as she realised she wasn't home, and blurry recollections of the previous night started filtering back.

Cautiously, with a feeling of dread, she opened her eyes. Marcheaux was lying next to her, sprawled on his front and still asleep. What she could see of him was currently naked, and brief investigation confirmed she certainly was.

Oh God. What had she done? Well, she knew what she'd done, because bits of it kept unhelpfully replaying themselves in her brain, but what had she _done_? Marcheaux was the last person she should have slept with. Apart from the fact he was her superior officer and could make life quite awful for her if he chose, the man was an arse. He'd probably spread it all round the station in a matter of hours that he'd shagged her. And that was before you got into the fact that officers weren't allowed to get involved with each other.

Beside her Marcheaux showed signs of stirring, and she winced, realising she'd run out of time to scarper before he woke up.

Marcheaux blinked across at her, took in the events of the night before, and groaned.

"Oh, fuck." He let his face fall back into the pillow, leaving Elodie with mixed feelings.

Initially there was a spike of aggrieved hurt that his reaction was as horrified as hers, then she told herself not to be daft, this possibly worked in her favour, and there was a possibility they could both just pretend it had never happened.

She slid out of the bed, glad that Marcheaux was still face down in the pillow and either pretending to be asleep or attempting to suffocate himself. She gathered up her clothes and slipped out of the room in search of a bathroom.

Fully dressed, Elodie hesitated in the hallway. Should she say goodbye, or just leave? She was erring towards the latter when a movement to her right made her jump, and she realised Marcheaux wasn't still in bed after all, and was in fact emerging from the kitchen.

He had thankfully pulled on a pair of boxer shorts but was otherwise still naked, and he was holding two mugs of tea.

They both came to a halt and stared at each other uncertainly. Marcheaux held out one of the mugs towards her.

"Er..?"

"Oh." Elodie was still inclined to do a runner, but was so blindsided that he'd actually got up and made her tea that she took it. "Thank you."

They stood there in awkward silence for a second.

"I'll, um. I'll put some clothes on." Marcheaux handed her his mug as well and slipped past her.

Elodie wandered into the living room and perched tentatively on the sofa. The room was as messy as she would have expected from the general state of his desk, but relatively clean. There was a rack of dvd's by the large TV and she ran her eye along the titles. Mostly mindless action flicks, and she caught herself feeling superior until she realised she'd seen most of them herself. The big surprise was the bookcase full of actual books. Again mostly cheap thrillers and spy novels, but somehow she hadn't taken him as someone who read for pleasure.

He wandered in, now respectably clad in jeans and t-shirt and retrieved his tea from the table.

"You read?" she ventured.

"Course I can read, you cheeky cow." He said it without rancour, and settled at the other end of the sofa, as far from her as he could get, bare feet tucked up underneath him.

"I suppose you just didn't strike me as the type."

Marcheaux shrugged. "This game's more than half waiting around. Stake-outs, courtrooms, waiting for witnesses to make themselves available. Passes the time."

They sipped their tea in hungover silence for a while, and Elodie gradually relaxed. It didn't feel much different from their teabreaks at work.

"So - about last night..." Marcheaux ventured reluctantly after a while, not looking at her.

"Nothing happened," Elodie said quickly. "Nothing happened last night."

Marcheaux let out a breath. She couldn't tell if it was relief or disappointment. "Yeah. Okay." A beat. "It was alright though?"

Elodie stared into her mug. "Yeah." He'd never struck her as the type to need reassurance. It belatedly occurred to her that he might have been panicking she was going to accuse him of taking advantage of her, although they'd both been equally shitfaced.

Marcheaux nodded philosophically.

"Wasn't it?" Elodie looked up, suddenly stung by the notion he might have thought _she_ was crap.

Marcheaux raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

It was Elodie's turn to nod, mollified. Her recollection of the previous night was still a bit blurry, and she suspected there'd been more drunken enthusiasm than actual prowess on either side, but it hadn't been all that bad. She also, to her heartfelt relief, distinctly remembered him putting on a condom.

She drained her mug and fiddled with it. "I should get going."

"Yeah, 'kay. See you tomorrow?"

Elodie nodded, and thankfully made her escape. She had mixed feelings over the whole affair. Marcheaux wasn't someone she'd have considered sleeping with in a thousand years, but objectively, the actual sex hadn't been that bad. And frankly, it had been a while. Hopefully they could both just chalk it up to a drunken fling and never mention it again.

–

The building was creaking in the wind. Aramis came round to find himself lying on the floor of an unfamiliar room, all bare boards and peeling wallpaper. There were damp stains on the ceiling, and everywhere the sound of the wind, seeking weaknesses in the structure. Aramis thought he felt the whole thing move slightly, and wondered in alarm where he was now. The manacles had gone, but he was handcuffed to a cast iron radiator which wasn’t much of an improvement. He managed to sit up, and discovered there was a window above him. It was boarded, but poorly, with light coming in through big gaps, and he wondered if he could shout to someone.

Levering himself awkwardly to his feet he experienced a violent sense of dislocation. Below him was water, a long way down and all the way out to the horizon.

After his previous experience he was less inclined to trust his own eyes and briefly wondered if he was on a ship in a room made to look like a house. Then he realised. The house was on a cliff, it must be right on the edge. The distant thumping, booming sound was the surf hitting the rocks below.

Aramis felt dizzy and jerked backwards, forgetting he was attached to the wall and falling awkwardly back the floor, unable to save himself.

He lay there, dazed, blinking the stars out of his vision and the door opened.

"I heard a crash." Marsac frowned down at him, then smirked. "No escape that way," he said, nodding towards the window.

"Where are we?" Aramis asked. "Is it safe?"

Marsac shrugged. "Nobody will come here looking for you, if that’s what you mean. It’s out of bounds. A whole street went over last winter just down the coast from here."

"Over?" Aramis abruptly realised what he meant. "Over the cliff?"

"It’s crumbling. Chalk, you see. The sea’s taking it back."

The howl of the wind took on a more sinister tenor, and Aramis fought down rising alarm. "How close are we to the edge?"

"Bits have gone already." Marsac gave him an unsettling smile. "Word of advice, don’t try and escape through the side door. It’s a long drop."

"Marsac, whatever you think you’re doing, whatever you want with me, we should get out of here. If this place goes we’ll both be killed."

Marsac just nodded distantly. "We both died a long time ago Aramis. It’s time our bodies caught up. Two more days. I’m prepared. Are you?"

–

Monday morning in the office Elodie could still feel the lingering effects of the hangover thirty six hours later, and took her chair gingerly. Marcheaux’s workstation opposite was deserted and she was relieved. There was no escaping the fact they’d have to interact at some point, but deferring it for even a few more minutes was a respite.

The office came to life around her as more people filtered in, checking up on progress, discussing the weekend. A couple asked after her, and it took a moment of panic before she realised they were asking about her head wound rather than her hangover. _Nobody knows_ , she told herself sternly.

"Morning." Movement on her right and a cup of coffee was placed on the edge of her desk. Elodie glanced up and blinked. Marcheaux took his own seat opposite, busying himself with his computer and nearly knocking his own coffee over, muttering under his breath.

His greeting had been muted and gloomy, but then he’d never been a morning person.

Elodie took the lid off, still half suspicious, but it was caramel macchiato, her absolute favourite, and she breathed it in happily.

"Thanks." she said.

Marcheaux grunted non-committally.

And that was the extent of it, as business as usual appeared to resume.

On the way to the morning briefing, d’Artagnan touched her elbow.

"What’s he done now?"

Elodie stared at him in startled alarm, but kept her voice neutral. "What do you mean?"

D’Artagnan looked amused. "He only ever buys you coffee when he needs to apologise for something."

Elodie stared at him. _Does he?_ she wanted to say, feeling she should have noticed a pattern that had been obvious to others. It was true Marcheaux buying her coffee was a rare event, but then, he was a fairly unrepentant kind of man.

"The fuck up at the power station I guess," she said finally. "Getting me a bollocking."

"And Saturday," d’Artagnan pointed out, miming a silent explosion.

"That was hardly his fault," Elodie protested, then bit her tongue. _Christ, don’t start leaping to his defence,_ she thought. _It wasn’t that good a shag._

Between Elodie’s head injury and Marcheaux’s unfortunate encounter with a taser they’d both missed the previous day’s briefing, but got the impression excitement at having a definite lead was already turning to frustration. Having been positively identified from pictures by Elodie and Marcheaux, everyone now was focussed on finding Marsac, but as the man had been officially declared dead several years previously this wasn’t easy. A man’s life was now officially deemed at risk, and with a definite connection between Herblay and Marsac, both men’s lives were being examined in detail. It didn’t appear to be helping. Marsac had no previous connection with the area and no living relatives.

D’Artagnan lead the briefing, Porthos adding salient notes but letting him direct the room. Elodie thought he looked tired and under strain, and guiltily wondered how much shit he was getting from above, both for the power outage and the explosion. She sneaked a look at Marcheaux, but he just looked bored. She suspected he was irritated at d’Artagnan being given such a prominent role.

There wasn’t a lot that could usefully be done, other forces were double checking Marsac’s extended and more obscure family ties and his friends, in case anyone who’d expressed surprise at him still being alive had been lying the first time round.

It was a frustrating day all round, and by the time Porthos headed home he was demoralised and had a headache from the amount of time he’d spent on the phone. His mood wasn’t improved by remembering halfway to the Manor that Athos had sent him a text saying he’d moved their stuff into the cottage next to their own. He reversed into a gateway and turned around, heading back through the village. Almost turned into their own parking space until recollecting at the last minute it was full of tree roots, and pulled up on the verge at the end of the row. He realised he didn’t have any keys to get in, but Athos must have heard the car because the front door opened as Porthos walked up to it.

"You don’t waste any time, do you?" Porthos said gruffly. He’d rather enjoyed being waited on at the Manor, but Athos had obviously been keen to get away.

"You don’t mind?" Athos checked, although it was rather a moot point by this time. "I don’t like taking up space Anne could be renting out, and this way we’re on our own. No news, I suppose?"

"On Aramis? No, sorry. I’ve got people checking every property on the Downs, but nothing’s come up. He could’ve gone anywhere."

"Not that easy to move someone, even if they’re unconscious. He’ll have gone somewhere close by. Somewhere not overlooked."

"Yeah, we had thought of that," said Porthos dryly. "I know lawyers all think the police are thick, but we can handle the basics."

"Sorry. Just trying to help." Athos walked over to stare blankly out of the window and Porthos wanted to kick himself. He followed Athos across the room and slipped his arms around his waist, squeezing him from behind.

"I’m sorry," Porthos murmured. "I’m just tired and grumpy. Seriously, all suggestions gratefully received, ‘cause we’re drawing a big fat blank so far."

Athos looked at him warily, then leaned back into his arms. "He’s ex-military," he mused. "He’ll have had a back-up plan. Somewhere else prepared in case things went south. Who owned the house he was using? How did he settle on it in the first place? It was too far from the road to be easily noticed as empty, and it wasn’t for sale."

"All good questions," Porthos nodded, trying to make up for his earlier own-goal. "It was bought a couple of years back by auction, by someone who never moved in. We’re trying to contact them, but no luck so far."

Athos pulled out of his arms and turned to look at him properly. "Have you got any way of finding out if they own any other properties?"

Porthos stared at him for a beat. "You think it was Marsac himself?" he asked incredulously.

"What better way of knowing you won’t be interrupted than to own the house in the first place?"

"But it was bought over two years ago!"

"And he’s been brooding on this for what – five?" Athos sighed, then gave a sheepish laugh. "It’s probably nothing. I just like to make things complicated."

"Sounds more like making them simple," Porthos said consideringly. "Could it be that easy?"

"Doesn’t help much, unless he’s conveniently bought another remote property under the same name," Athos pointed out.

"No, but it gives us another lead to follow. Even if it comes to nothing, it’s something we hadn’t actually given much consideration." Porthos kissed the top of his head. "I knew I kept you around for a reason."

"I should get consultancy rates," Athos jibed, but Porthos noted he looked pleased nonetheless. 

–

"Right, new tack," Porthos announced at the next briefing. "The owners of the house that blew up. I want to know who they are and what else they own."

"It was bought through an agency," Elodie reported, bringing up her notes on the screen. "They’re not proving very co-operative so far, even though we’ve told them what happened to their client’s property."

"Get a warrant," Porthos ordered. "I want full details and I particularly want to know if that or any other agency has bought anything else in the area for them."

"You surely don’t think there’s a connection?" Marcheaux scoffed.

"You got any better ideas sergeant?" Porthos shot back. "Besides, if I was you I’d be hoping there is. If this man Marsac owned the place the owners ain’t going to be pursuing damages against the officer that failed to protect their property, are they?"

–

With Porthos at work, Athos found himself drawn up to the church, unsure if he was looking for comfort or inspiration. He still felt somehow like he’d been uprooted and was drifting, uncomfortably out of kilter with his own life. 

That morning he’d found his hands were shaking badly while he was making tea, and had had to put the kettle down before he scalded himself. He’d managed to recover himself before Porthos came down to breakfast, but the feeling of being on the verge of a panic attack persisted, and he’d come outside in the vain hope that fresh air might help.

Rounding the corner of the church he almost bumped into someone coming out of the south porch, and they both yelped in surprise.

"Athos! You gave me quite the shock." 

"Sorry Ninon. Didn’t expect to see you up here." As proprietor of the village’s New Age shop, Ninon was hardly an avid church-goer. 

"Sacred ground is sacred ground," she said reprovingly. "These places go back further than the buildings on them you know. As a matter of fact I was intending to go in, but it’s all locked up." Ninon softened her tone. "He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? The Reverend?"

"Glad to hear you’re still using the present tense," Athos said, not entirely joking. Ninon frequently hinted at having a certain talent for clairvoyancy, although he was far from convinced as to whether it was real.

"I feel that he’s still with us," Ninon said seriously. "Although perhaps not for long."

"What do you mean?" 

"Just a sense, you know. Nothing concrete. More of a sensation. The sands of time, slipping away."

"Could you find him?" Athos asked with a sudden spark of hope. "Like – dowsing over a map or something?"

Ninon pursed her lips, then sighed. "I tried, if you must know. I’m sorry Athos, it’s an art not a science." She patted his arm sympathetically. "I do hope they find him though. And for his sake, soon."

More unsettled than ever, Athos watched her walk away, long coat flapping round her ankles like a cloak. Feeling suddenly unsteady he leaned back against the reassuringly solid church wall, and closed his eyes. 

"Where are you Aramis? Where are you?"

–

"Sir, we might have something." D’Artagnan appeared in Porthos’ doorway looking more hopeful than he had for days. "You were right, the agency finally confirmed a list of other properties they’d handled for the same client. One of them’s not far away, on the south coast. Literally in fact, it’s right on the cliff. We checked with the council, and there’s nobody registered living there – mainly because the entire road was evacuated two months ago."

"Evacuated?"

"Yeah. It’s considered at risk of collapse. The storms last month brought down a load of the cliff, and the edge is right up to the outer wall of the last house. The garage went over last week."

Porthos stood up. "Which house are we interested in?" 

"Guess."

Porthos groaned. "Of course it had to get more complicated. Alright, let’s get down there. I want armed response standing by, we have to assume he’s still got at least one gun on him, possibly more. Whose patch it is, Brighton’s? Let them know what we’re up to, I don’t want to tread on any toes." While d’Artagnan disappeared to delegate his various orders, Porthos picked up the phone to let Athos know he’d be late home. 

–

Athos sat in a kitchen that was a mirror image of his own surrounded by bags and boxes of stuff he’d been allowed to retrieve from next door. To pack it all away felt a little daunting and a lot tiring and he rubbed his eyes wearily. He knew the concern over Aramis was getting to him and he was trying to hide exactly how low he felt from Porthos, who was at least in a position to do something about it.

Knowing that doing something was better than just sitting there he hauled himself up the stairs. He’d get the bedroom straight at least for when Porthos came home, no doubt late and exhausted. 

He’d dragged his old suitcases out for the hasty move one house over, and as he unpacked clothes something in the side pocket rattled. He unzipped it and abruptly sat down on the bed as the breath went out of him. Wrapped in a pair of socks he’d long thought lost was an old bottle of sleeping pills.

Athos took the bottle out with a shaking hand. It had to have been in there since he moved in, he hadn’t touched the luggage since. He’d been in a bad way then, operating in a medicated haze to the extent he could hardly trust what was real. The memory of it swept over him like a cold wave, and for a moment it was hard to breathe.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there when his phone rang downstairs. Athos blinked, as if coming out of a trance. By the time he’d got back to the kitchen the ringing had stopped and he only then realised he’d carried the pills downstairs with him.

He set them on the table uncomfortably, wondering what to do about them. A glance at his phone told him it had been Porthos ringing, and he picked it up in sudden hope that Aramis had been found, dialling the answerphone.

"Hey, it’s me. We’ve got a possible lead, just wanted you to know I’ll be late back. Fingers crossed, eh."

Athos laid the phone down again slowly, his gaze being drawn inexorably back to the pills. He felt itchy and restless, and rather sick. He’d worked so hard, for so long, and it shouldn’t feel like this, it shouldn’t even be a question. It shouldn’t feel like a temptation, like a release. To take any, he knew, would mean he’d failed. But -

But.

He should call Porthos, except he couldn’t, he was busy, and while Athos might have been willing in extremis to interfere with the progress of any other case, this was Aramis they were talking about.

Aramis, regardless, would also want him to call Porthos. He could hear him perfectly clearly in his head telling him so.

"Shut up Aramis. Let him find you." Athos went to put his head in his hands and discovered he was somehow holding the damn things. When had he picked them up?

Would they even still work? They were a couple of years old now. Maybe they wouldn’t be so strong. Maybe the effects wouldn’t be so bad.

"For fuck’s sake." With an effort of will Athos made himself put them down, but he couldn’t stop thinking about them. How good it would feel to sink into that soft woolly sleep, be cushioned from the worries of the world?

When had he picked them up again?

–


	3. Chapter 3

"Right, Marcheaux’s team goes in first, second team with d’Artagnan goes in once the entrance is established clear, we understand the rear door is inaccessible." Porthos faced his team, expression tight. They had armed response, coastguard liaison and incongruously a mountain rescue unit due to the danger from the crumbling cliffs, and it had taken Porthos much longer than he’d hoped to get permission to be here at all. They were supposed to wait for a hostage negotiation team given they knew Marsac was armed and dangerous, but they’d been given clearance to check if they had the right place first.

D’Artagnan had been grumbling endlessly about the fact Marcheaux was the one who got to go in first, but as he was the only one who’d done any active fire training when he’d been working with the Met it was unarguable. 

The weather was atrocious, lashing squalls of rain making conversation difficult but Porthos had an earpiece and channels to both his team leaders. He turned round to find d’Artagnan had walked over, not wanting to be overheard on the radio.

"I want to do the armed response training," d’Artagnan said, before Porthos could open his mouth.

He sighed. "Fine. I’ll put your name forward," Porthos conceded. He had to admit having Marcheaux head up the main unit made him nervous, but he also didn’t have the time or patience right now to debate the matter, he needed everybody concentrating.

The first group approached the front door, tense and alert. There was a light showing within, and Marcheaux listened but could hear nothing above the howl of the wind and the waves breaking below. He tried the door then stood aside and two officers with a red battering ram swung at the door. It splintered open and they were inside. There was a dim light at the far end of the hallway, but it was gloomy and he stumbled, foot catching on the torn carpet and swore. 

"Entrance clear," he confirmed over the radio, and heard d’Artagnan’s team moving in behind. They eyed each other, edging round as Marcheaux lead his team upstairs and d’Artagnan carried on to the far end of the hall. The wind was howling through the eaves and something was creaking unnervingly. D’Artagnan hoped it was just Marcheaux’s team upstairs and not the house itself about to go over the cliff.

He reached the door and saw there was a faint glow beneath it. He banged on it with the side of his fist. "Police. Open up."

There was no answer and he frowned. He wasn’t supposed to enter until they’d established who was on the other side. If it was Marsac with a loaded gun he was going to look pretty daft if he got his head shot off. On the other hand he could hardly come out again saying he didn’t know who was there.

A scuffle behind him turned out to be Marcheaux shouldering his way through the press of officers behind him.

"Fuck all upstairs. What’s going on?" he asked in a low voice.

"No answer," d’Artagnan admitted.

"Someone’s been living here," Marcheaux said. "It stinks. Come on, we can’t stand here all day, are we going in or what? I’ve got a score to settle with this bastard."

"What if he’s got a gun on us?"

"That’d be why you’re going in first." Marcheaux grinned at him. "Thought you liked being in charge? Besides, he could’ve shot us through the door by now, amount of time you’ve been dithering."

D’Artagnan glared at him, not least because he was right. On the other hand it was also a comforting thought, and having announced their presence again and still got no answer, they shoved open the door and piled into the room.

–

"Christ, you look dreadful."

"Thanks a bunch." Athos held open the front door and Constance walked inside peering at him dubiously.

"Well, you do. What’s up? You said you needed help. If it’s unpacking, I’ll smack you."

"In a manner of speaking." Athos murmured, following her through the house as she looked around curiously.

"It’s weird, it’s like being in your house but not. Like a mirror universe." She grinned at him, but Athos shuddered.

"Thanks, I was feeling uncomfortable enough as it was."

Constance frowned. "You okay? You really do look rough. Is it Aramis?" She looked abruptly shifty. "Not that d’Artagnan tells me anything confidential, obviously."

That did finally raise a half-smile from Athos. "Relax, I’m not the force. I’m just engaged to it."

"How are things with you two?" Constance probed.

"Fine."

"Honestly?"

Athos gave her a puzzled look. "Shouldn’t they be?"

"Oh, yeah, no, I just thought if you needed to talk to me rather than Porthos it might be him you wanted to talk about."

"No, we’re fine. He’s just busy. And yes, with Aramis. They think they’ve got a lead."

"That’s great!"

"Yeah." Athos put the kettle on and padded about the kitchen restlessly. "I just feel helpless. Like I should be doing something."

"I’m sure they’re doing all they can."

"I know, it’s not that. I just need to – I don’t know."

"Athos what is it?" Constance stopped his pacing with a hand on his shoulder, stepping back again as soon as he stopped and looked at her.

"I should have noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"He was missing for two whole days before anyone even started looking. He’s my friend, I should’ve noticed something was wrong."

"Athos, for God’s sake this isn’t your fault. Nobody else noticed either, come to that. Not even his girlfriend at first."

"Seems like everyone assumed he was somewhere else," Athos admitted. "People knew he could get diverted at the last minute by sudden demands on his time, so nobody thought it was odd when he didn’t show up to places he was supposed to be. He didn’t have anything formal like a christening or a wedding, so everyone let it slide." The kettle clicked off and he stared at it blankly. "It shouldn’t have been like that."

"Shit happens. You know know that," said Constance firmly, picking up a couple of mugs since Athos seemed to have stopped working. "Porthos’ll find him."

"Yeah."

Constance looked at him sideways. "Fine, it sucks nobody noticed quicker, but it’s not like he was decomposing on his couch for a month, the guy’s got plenty of people who care. Even if you’d wondered about it sooner, what could you have done? The police don’t get off their arses just cause someone’s not answering their phone. Stop trying to make it your fault and tell me what’s really the matter."

Athos glared at her, then reluctantly took something out of his pocket and set it down on the worksurface.

"Thought you’d stopped taking those," Constance said after a significant pause.

"I had. I have. I found them." Athos gave her an uncertain look. "Must have been in my bag since I left London."

"Shit," Constance muttered. "Have you taken any?"

"No."

"Good." She stuck the pill bottle in her pocket, and gave him a look that dared him to argue, but Athos just looked relieved it was literally out of his hands.

"Have you told Porthos?" Constance asked more gently.

"No. I told you, he’s busy. I only found them earlier."

"Okay. You tell him when he gets back, okay?"

"Tell him what?" Athos protested. "I didn’t do anything."

"And you didn’t just chuck ‘em in the bin with a shrug either did you? Athos we can’t help you if you’re not honest about how you feel."

Athos groaned, slumping into a chair defeatedly. "Fine. I wanted to take one. More than one. I feel like shit and I just wanted it to stop." He caught sight of Constance’s frozen expression and flapped an impatient hand at her. "Not like that. Not _all_ of them. Just enough to take the edge off."

"Okay. Talk to me." Constance finished making the tea and sat down opposite him. "You don’t want to distract Porthos right now and I get that, it’s stupid but I get it. So talk to me. The house thing’s not helping, right? That had to be a hell of a shock."

"We nearly died," Athos admitted quietly.

"What? You never said that! Athos were either of you hurt?"

"No. We had a lucky escape. Weirdly lucky. We were downstairs when the tree came down, but a couple of minutes earlier we’d been in bed, and if we’d still been there we’d almost certainly have been killed."

"Shit," said Constance, with feeling.

"Yes. Quite." Athos toyed with his mug. "I’ve just felt – disconnected somehow, since then."

"Sounds like you’re in shock to me," Constance said. "Have you talked about it with Porthos?"

"Kind’ve. A bit. But that was the night we found out Aramis was missing, so it’s all been a bit crazy since then."

Constance sighed. "You really are your own worst enemy sometimes you know."

Athos managed a smile. "That’s what I like about you. The sympathetic manner."

"I know you too well," Constance retorted. "Anything half-hearted you just ignore. Right, come on." She stood up and Athos looked surprised.

"Where are we going?"

"Dunno. Somewhere else. Change of scene, bit of fresh air. Have you eaten?"

"No, not yet."

"Let’s find somewhere then. Finger on the map job. If it’s good it’ll cheer you up, if it’s shit it’ll give you something new to bitch about." 

Athos found an ordnance survey map and Constance pointed at the centre of a coffee ring. "There. That’s where we’ll go. Sea view and everything."

"It’s nearly dark," Athos pointed out.

"Sea breeze then."

"Constance it’s gale force out there."

"Blow the cobwebs away then won’t it?" Constance said brightly. "Come on, shift it, I’m hungry."

–  
"Athos, how old is this map?" Constance asked half an hour later, peering at the publication date in the dim glow of the overhead light.

"I've no idea, I think it was in the cottage when we moved across. Why, are we lost?"

"Not exactly, it's just they seem to have built quite a lot of new roads since 1983," said Constance dryly, chucking it across at him. "According to your map, the road we're currently on doesn't exist."

Athos got his phone out and poked unsuccessfully at the maps app. "No signal. I think it's the ridge of the Downs, you get pockets where there's just nothing round here."

"Great." Constance started driving again, looking out for a sign that might give some indication of where they were. Somewhere between Brighton and Hastings was about as exact as she could get right now.

"Look, there's a pub down there." Athos pointed to a sign half-consumed by the hedge, and Constance frowned. The paint was peeling and the lettering faded, but it promised food and she turned down the lane.

They drove for some time, along a road which other than a few farm buildings quickly became single track.

"Are you sure about this?" Constance asked dubiously.

"Well there haven't been any turnings, we can't have gone wrong," Athos pointed out. "Come on, it might be a hidden gem."

"It also might be full of cannibals," Constance grumbled, but she kept going mostly due to a lack of places to turn around.

Eventually the headlights picked out a building up ahead and the road came to an abrupt end in an expanse of rutted gravel that might charitably have been called a car park.

"I don’t think they’re still serving," said Constance, deadpan, as they both stared dismally at the dark and dilapidated looking façade.

"Maybe the entrance is round the side." Athos opened the door and climbed out, despite Constance spluttering at him not to be silly. He could see perfectly well the place was long closed down but as it had been at his insistence that they’d driven all the way down the lane and he’d got them lost in the first place, he felt obliged to keep up the pretence he knew what he was doing for a moment longer.

Athos quickly regretted getting out the of the car. The wind was sharp and full of needlepoints of rain, and he pulled his coat more tightly round him. The old inn was tucked beneath the lee of the cliff but the position seemed to funnel the wind down rather than shelter against it and he found himself being blown across the car park almost at a trot.

Just in time he realised the distant thumping noise he’d been aware of on the edge of his hearing was waves pounding on the cliffs below. The gravel ended in a ragged edge with no fence, and he braced himself against the wind to peer over. Far below the water foamed angrily against the chalk, a greedy white maelstrom just visible in the last of the daylight.

An extra-strong gust made him stagger, his foot slipping dangerously close to the edge. Athos backed up hastily, shooting a guilty glance back at the car to see if Constance had caught him being that monumentally stupid. The car was in darkness, but while he couldn’t make out her outline he could certainly picture the tutting.

Trying to look like a man who hadn’t just accidentally almost fallen off a cliff, he strode over to investigate the deserted pub instead. It was two storeys high, the ground floor windows boarded over and the upper ones mostly smashed. It was a sorry-looking sight, and now he was this close could see how dangerously close it was to going over the edge. The car park had probably had a fence at one point he realised. The ragged edge was not due to lack of care, but more likely the fact a chunk of it had fallen into the sea in the not too distant past.

The old building wouldn’t be long behind, Athos reckoned, as the rain started coming down again in earnest. There was another noise threaded in amongst the deeper booming of the waves, a sinister hissing sound. Closer to the cliff, Athos finally figured out what it was – a constant stream of chalky gravel pouring down cracks in the cliff and out over the edge. Like an egg-timer he thought, counting down the remaining life of the old building. He shuddered.

An ominous cracking made him jump, and a whole chunk of cliff slithered down past the back of the building and over the edge. Athos couldn’t hear the splash but it was enough to make him come to his senses.

Ready to concede defeat, Athos was about to leave when he caught sight of a gleam of light between the boards on the front door. He turned to look at the car, assuming it was the reflection of the headlights, but Constance had turned the engine off, and all was in darkness.

He put his eye to the crack. There it was again, a definite gleam of light deep within the building. Athos froze, realising there was someone in there after all. Squatters? Whoever it was, they presumably didn’t realise how close the whole place was to collapse. He tried the door, but it was locked, or possibly nailed shut. He banged on the wood, feeling it shake under his hand and wondering distantly if Constance would think he’d gone nuts.

There was no reply, and he hammered again on the door. "Hey! Hey, is there somebody in there? You need to get out, now!"

–

Marcheaux’s team crashed into the room and stopped in surprise. As expected it was occupied, but the three figures huddled in sleeping bags that stared blurrily up at them certainly didn’t pose a threat, and the assorted drug paraphernalia scattered on the floor suggested why.

"Oh fucking hell," said Marcheaux disgustedly, as d’Artagnan established none of them were either of the men they were looking for and radioed Porthos with their findings. Distantly they heard the rest of the team entering the house behind them and a second later Porthos loomed up through the doorway.

"Well where the fuck are they then?"

–

Athos was just wondering whether he could break the door in, when footsteps sounded inside, and there came the scraping of a large metal bolt. The door swung open and an unkempt looking man stared out at him.

"Thank God. Listen, you have to get out of here, the entire place is about to go over the edge," Athos gabbled.

_"Athos?"_

The incredulous-sounding shout had come from deep inside the building, and Athos automatically peered over the man’s shoulder into the gloom. Recognition was just dawning when the voice came again.

"Hey! Whoever it is out there – help!"

"Aramis?" Athos mouthed, confused. He looked back at the man blocking the doorway – and saw the gun.

Held low to the body, the barrel was pointing steadily at his stomach.

Several things fell into place in quick succession, and Athos looked up into the intense expression of the man holding him there and felt cold.

"Mr Marsac, I presume," he said steadily.

Marsac glared at him, clearly alarmed.

"How the fuck do you know who I am?"

"There’s a lot of people going to a lot of trouble to find you," Athos said. "They’re not far away," he lied, praying that Constance stayed in the car. With the engine and lights off, hopefully Marsac didn’t know she was there. She could get help – assuming she knew help was needed. Athos realised she wouldn’t be able to see the gun, and tried to edge sideways.

"Stay where you are," Marsac ordered, raising the gun threateningly. "Get inside."

In many ways this was more alarming than the threat of being shot. Athos had few illusions regarding how long the building had left.

"Make your mind up," Athos objected, playing for time. "Stay where I am, or get inside?"

"Don’t take the piss." The gun was shoved in his face, and Athos raised his hands placatingly, edging past him into the hallway.

Marsac marched him at gunpoint deeper into the pub. Athos got a glimpse of a cobweb-festooned taproom to the right, then he was marched into what had presumably once been a sort of office.

Aramis was sitting on the floor, chained to a radiator. He looked up hopefully when Athos came in, his expression falling into one of stricken guilt when he saw Marsac behind him.

"Aramis."

"Athos."

"I’d like to say this was a rescue, but it appears to be more of an almighty cock-up."

"How did you find us?"

"Would you believe I needed a drink?"

Despite the circumstances, Aramis’ lips twitched into a smile. "Bizarrely, I would."

Marsac prodded Athos in the back with the gun, pushing him further into the room. "You police?"

Athos considered lying, then decided that when dealing with apparent madmen, honesty was possibly the best policy. "No. Just a friend. But the police are on their way."

Hopefully a white lie wouldn’t hurt, although he regretted the way Aramis immediately looked brighter. He hadn’t meant to give him false hope.

"Get on the floor."

"I’d rather not."

Marsac hit him without warning, a blow with the gun to the back of the head. Athos cried out, more in shock than pain, and when he turned the gun was once more in his face.

"If I have to tell you more than once, I’ll shoot you where you stand."

"Don’t push him Athos," Aramis said quietly. "He’s far enough gone that he’d do it."

Athos sat on the filthy floorboards next to Aramis, and Marsac threw a pair of handcuffs down to him. "Put those on. Chain yourself to the pipe like him."

Athos debated refusing, but Aramis caught his eye and shook his head.

"Fine." Athos sighed, fastening one cuff to his left wrist and the other round the pipework. Marsac walked over then and aimed a vicious kick at his arm, making sure the chain was secure.

"Good. Now. Did you come alone?"

"Yes." Athos held his gaze steadily, and Marsac glared at him.

"You’d better not be lying to me." He turned and walked out and Aramis quickly leaned closer.

"Are you really on your own?" he whispered, clearly wondering how the hell Athos had got there when he hadn’t been driving for months.

Athos shook his head. "Constance is out there," he told him under his breath. "Although I dearly hope she’s gone for help."

"I haven’t heard an engine," said Aramis dubiously.

"She may not have realised what was happening," Athos sighed. "She’s probably wondering what the hell’s going on. Oh, and the bad news is I lied about the police. Porthos is out looking for you somewhere, but I think it’s safe to say he’s off on a wild goose chase right now."

"We’re on our own then?" Aramis checked, then nodded grimly. "Sorry Athos. I never imagined you’d get dragged into this."

"Yes, well, sorry for fucking up what could have been a rescue. I genuinely had no idea you were in here." Athos gave him a rueful smile.

Heavy footsteps in the hallway made them fall silent, and Marsac reappeared a moment later, alone. Athos and Aramis exchanged a relieved glance. Clearly he hadn’t found Constance.

"So, Aramis, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?" Athos asked dryly.

"Marsac, Athos. Athos, this is Marsac," said Aramis. "He was – is – my friend. My comrade. Someone I once knew I could rely on," he said sadly, staring up at him. "I’d say I don’t know what happened, but that’s the worst of it, I do. I just don’t know how to help."

"Oh, you will help," Marsac said blankly. "You’re coming with me. I’m sorry about your friend, but he shouldn’t have come here."

He walked out again, and Athos raised his eyebrows enquiringly. "Did that sound as ominous as I think it did?"

Aramis made a face. "He wants to die. And he intends to take me with him. He sees it as making amends for – for things we did. Bad things."

"You don’t have to tell me."

"Maybe I should."

Athos shook his head. "Let’s get the fuck out of here first and you can tell me later. Heartfelt confessions should come about through an excess of single malt, not the threat of imminent death. Which reminds me, and don’t take this the wrong way, but if that’s what he wants why hasn’t he just shot you already? Why all this palaver with deserted buildings and kidnapping?"

"He’s got a specific date in mind. I think he wanted to torture me for a while first," Aramis sighed. "Make me doubt my own senses, make me experience a fraction of what he did. As for the rest – well he’s Catholic."

"And other than a worryingly cavalier approach to birth control, what does that imply?"

Aramis bit down on the inappropriate urge to laugh. "Suicide’s a sin."

"But murder isn’t?"

Aramis gave him a look, and Athos shrugged an apology. "I still don’t see what – oh. Fuck. The cliff."

"Yes."

"He’s waiting for this place to collapse. He wants it to."

"Exactly. Act of God."

"Act of coastal erosion more like." Athos tugged irritably at the handcuff chain, wincing as his bruised wrist protested. "We need to get out of here."

"The thought had occurred," said Aramis with remarkable patience. "But he’s had years to plan this, and he hasn’t stinted on the quality of the kit." He yanked at his own handcuffs in a futile demonstration and slumped dejectedly back against the wall.

Athos kicked his ankle. "Don’t give up. We’ll think of something."

"Such as?"

"Buggered if I know." Athos winced as the building creaked ominously around them. "Can you fly?"

Aramis’ involuntary laugh was drowned out by an even louder creaking of tortured joists as something structural appeared to give way and the whole floor dropped about an inch.

Gradually they unfroze, laughing nervously as things seemed to settle back into relative stability.

"I don’t think this place has much time left," Athos murmured.

"The back’s already undercut, according to Marsac," Aramis reported gloomily. "I thought he was just trying to scare me off trying to escape that way, but now I’m not so sure."

"The whole cliff’s crumbling," Athos told him. "That’s what I was trying to warn whoever was in here about."

"Yes, well. Thanks for the sentiment." Aramis sighed, then looked at him with a sudden spark of hope. "Here, don’t suppose you’ve got a phone on you? Or did Marsac search you?"

"No, he didn’t. But I didn’t have a signal earlier." Athos pulled it out of his coat and checked. "Still nothing. It must be the cliffs."

"We could – I don’t know. Record a message or something," Aramis ventured.

"We’re not going to die," Athos said firmly. "Apart from anything else, it’d be too embarrassing. Porthos thinks I’m safely at home right now." He went back to trying to break the handcuff chain, despite achieving nothing but broken fingernails.

"Is Anne worried?"

"What do you think? She hides it well, but she’s frantic." Athos looked up and half-smiled. "I mean wondering what to do with a tonne of frozen canapés if you don’t show up to the wedding’s got to take its toll on a person."

He was glad when Aramis laughed. He looked tired and drawn and seemed entirely too fatalistic about what might happen for Athos’ liking, and he wondered exactly what Marsac had put him through over the past few days. Whether Aramis’ use of the word torture had been meant in a literal physical sense. Marsac certainly didn’t seem shy about using violence and Athos already had the bruises to prove it.

"Look, if you really want to record a – " Athos broke off as Marsac came back into the room.

"You’re coming with me." Marsac threw a set of keys down to Aramis and nodded at the handcuffs. He held the gun in his other hand, trained steadily on them all the while.

Aramis and Athos exchanged a glance. Being unchained was an improvement, but it seemed things were escalating, which was bad. Possibly Athos’ arrival and threat of the imminent arrival of the police had made Marsac nervous.

"Where are we going?" Athos asked, but Marsac shook his head curtly. "Not you. Only him."

Aramis looked up. "Let him go," he begged. "Athos is nothing to do with any of this."

"He can take his chances," Marsac said, then gave Athos a brief glance. "For what it’s worth, it was not my intention to kill any more innocents. Perhaps God will find you worth saving. Hurry up!" This last was directed at Aramis, who seemed to be having trouble with the cuffs.

"You try unlocking yourself with both hands chained to a radiator!" Aramis objected, hoping Athos could see what he was doing and Marsac couldn’t. Finally free, he threw the bunch of keys back up to Marsac and stood up warily, rubbing his wrists. "Now what?"

"Out. Turn left and keep going." 

Aramis glanced down at Athos and made a face. "Here’s hoping there’s still some floor back there to walk on," he murmured.

As soon as they were clear of the door Athos rolled sideways and stretched out until he could just reach the cuff dangling from the pipe. Using his hunched body to shield his actions from Marsac, Aramis had managed to slip the key off the ring entirely, and left it sticking out of the lock, gambling that Marsac wouldn’t check the bunch when he took it back.

–

Sitting in the car, Constance had watched Athos’ perambulations around the car park with a tolerant amusement, knowing perfectly well he didn’t really want to be out there in the worsening weather, and also perfectly willing to let him suffer until he made his own mind up to come back in the warm.

When he’d started banging on the door of the deserted building she’d been about to get out and ask him what was going on, but when a second man had appeared unexpectedly she’d stopped with one hand on the door handle, watching in surprise.

It was dark by now, but the light from inside illuminated the figures on the step, enough to see Athos had a hand behind his back, palm and fingers splayed urgently as if to tell her to stay put. Constance frowned, wondering if Athos was getting a bollocking for trespassing, then sat up in consternation as he went inside. As they’d turned, in the last gleam of light from inside she’d seen the other man holding what looked horribly like a gun.

"Athos what the fuck have you got into now?" she muttered. She took out her phone, but like Athos had no signal. Growling under her breath she opened the door and ran across to the building. "You don’t pay me enough for this," she whispered. "In fact you don’t pay me at all. I could have stayed in London. I could have stayed at home. But no, you and your neuroses always have to end up tangling with murderous lunatics. Some people just take up knitting!"

Her muted monologue was cut short as the front door was thrown open again and she ducked hastily around the side of the porch, crouching behind a boulder. A man came out, strode across to the car and peered inside, looked around suspiciously, then went back inside, slamming and by the sounds of it bolting the door behind him.

Constance sat down heavily on the wet ground, breathing hard. There’d been no mistaking it this time, he’d definitely had a gun. Which meant Athos was presumably in the shit, and who knew who else was in there.

She debated what to do. It could be a long drive before she picked up a phone signal, on the other hand she had no way of overpowering a man with a gun, or for that matter of getting into the building.

There was a trickle of gravel and cascade of smaller stones behind her and she scrambled to her feet, afraid the unknown gunman had circled around from the back, but there was no one there, just a pile of debris forming from further up the cliff. Constance looked dubiously up at the crumbling rock face and then back at the boulder sized chunk she was hiding behind, realising for the first time where it had come from.

"Fuck." She set off for the car at a run.

–

Aramis stopped abruptly, heedless of the gun barrel that immediately jabbed into his spine. The room Marsac had herded him into was no longer entirely a room. The entire back corner of the building had disintegrated, and there was nothing but a yawning black hole where the left hand wall should have been. The ceiling overheard was sagging alarmingly and the floorboards were juddering in protest. There was a smashing noise audible over the howl of the wind and for one crazy moment Aramis thought someone was gleefully breaking plates until he realised it was the roof tiles sliding off and breaking on the rocks.

"You should get someone to look at that," he heard himself say, feeling lightheaded. "I think you’ve got subsidence. Or really big mice."

"Move." Marsac prodded him again with the gun, but Aramis refused to budge.

"No. You’re going to kill me either way, and on the whole I’d prefer a bullet to the head than to be dashed to pieces on the rocks."

"I could always shoot you in the leg," Marsac pointed out. "Move."

Reluctantly, Aramis edged further into the room. The floor felt spongy underfoot, presumably because the far ends of the floorboards were currently dangling in mid-air.

"You don’t have to do this." Aramis turned to look at him, unflinching as the gun swung up to point at his face. "It’s not too late to walk away. We can all get out of here."

"After everything I’ve done? I don’t think so. They won’t let me go, not now."

"The police aren’t here. They’re not coming, Athos lied. You can get away before they do."

Marsac lowered the gun, looking suddenly tired. "The only way out now is down. For both of us. Don’t you want it to be over too? How do you cope with it?"

"With what?" Aramis eyed the gun at his side speculatively. Marsac was no longer aiming it, but his grip was still firm. Too much distance between them to risk a lunge.

"The screaming," Marsac said, his tone leaden. "The nightmares."

"I suppose I found God." Aramis risked a step closer, but Marsac immediately swung the gun up to cover him again, and now there was a hard smile on his face.

"Then consider this your lucky day. You get to meet him in person."

Whatever Aramis would have said in reply was lost, as with a great tearing crack the second wall gave way, plaster and masonry tumbling into the darkness and pulling parts of the ceiling and floor with it.

The floor bucked underfoot and Aramis fell hard, only to find himself sliding across the room, the whole building no longer level. He scrabbled desperately for purchase on something, anything that would stop him falling out into space.

Marsac had grabbed the doorframe, only to be hit in quick succession by a storm lantern and then the table it had been sitting on. He let go with a surprised yell and rolled past Aramis, who was clinging for dear life to a splintered length of skirting board protruding from the wall.

Aramis made a grab as he shot past, managing to seize a handful of Marsac’s jacket and stop his headlong plunge. The weight of them both tore the boarding from the wall, and they dropped another couple of feet before it wedged itself tightly into another gap in the floor.

The jolt almost made Aramis let go, but with every muscle in his shoulders straining he managed to hang on to both lifeline and Marsac. They were in darkness now, the lantern having gone over the edge, and all he could hear was the wind and the waves below.

"You’ll have to try and climb me," Aramis yelled into the gale. "I can’t pull you up."

There was no answer, and he looked down, trying to make out the shape of Marsac in the gloom. He had a death grip on Aramis’ arm now so he was clearly still conscious, but was making no attempt to save himself.

In fact, as Aramis realised a second later, Marsac’s intent was just the opposite. With his feet dangling in free air, Marsac started pulling at Aramis with the clear intention of breaking his hold.

"Aramis!"

The room lit up again, and Aramis managed to raise his head enough to see Athos clinging to the door frame holding the lantern from the other room.

"Get out of here," Aramis yelled. "The whole place is going."

"Where’s Marsac?"

"I’ve got him, but I don’t know how long I can hold him," Aramis said, omitting the fact that even now Marsac was doing his damnedest to make him let go. He wanted Athos out of here and safe.

"Hang on, I’m coming."

"What? No!" Aramis protested, but just then Marsac took advantage of his distraction to heave at his arm, and he felt his grip weaken.

It felt like slow motion. His hold on the rough wood slipping away, the buffeting wind against his back, the drag of the floorboards against his clothes just too little to check his descent. Aramis felt his feet slide out into yawning space, Marsac a deadly weight still clamped to his left arm, pulling him over the edge.

And then everything came to a stop in a sudden burst of pain, and for a second Aramis couldn’t breathe, feeling like he was being ripped in two, although he didn’t seem to be falling any more.

When he opened his eyes he found Athos wedged precariously in the corner and holding onto his right hand and wrist for all he was worth. Tracking upwards with his eyes Aramis realised Athos had slid all the way down the crazily leaning room to grab hold of him at the last second.

"You mad bastard."

"You’re welcome."

Aramis cried out as Marsac hauled at him again, and Athos frowned at the sudden increase in weight. "What the hell’s going on down there?"

"He’s still trying to take me with him," Aramis managed, through gritted teeth.

"Shit."

"Athos, let go."

"What? No!"

"You can’t pull us both up and there no sense in letting him kill you as well."

Athos looked round frantically, searching for some way of anchoring them all better. Seeing Aramis about to go over the edge he’d acted on pure instinct, and it had been mostly just blind luck he hadn’t shot straight over with them. He had his back wedged in an angle of the wall still mostly attached to the building and his feet braced in gaps in the floor, but the whole lot felt unsteady underneath him, and the fact bits of the ceiling and upper storey were occasionally raining down around them didn’t help matters. All it needed was for one masonry block to score a direct hit and they’d all be fish food.

Agony coursing through his body, Aramis tried to drag Marsac higher, but the man was purposefully making himself a dead weight and Aramis couldn’t raise him an inch. Sharp ends of floorboards were digging into his chest where he was sprawled more than half-off the splintered edge to the building.

"Marsac! Please! It doesn’t have to end like this," he begged, hardly knowing if his words were even audible over the wind that seemed to be doing its best to tear the building from under them.

There was an ominous snapping sound somewhere towards the front of the building, and the whole structure seemed to lurch. Plasterboard buckled and cracked and Athos was unexpectedly tipped forwards.

He managed to save himself just in time, but now he was sprawled across the sloping floor. The floor was wet where the gale had blown occasional squalls of rain inside, and Athos’ position was slippery and precarious.

The sudden slack in the human chain meant that Aramis was now hanging almost totally out into mid-air. Marsac made a grab for his foot, transferring his hold to Aramis’ legs. For a brief hopeful second Aramis thought he’d changed his mind and wanted to live, but his insistent pulling resumed and Aramis closed his eyes.

He wouldn't let Marsac drag Athos to his death. He wouldn’t.

"Last chance."

Marsac stared up at him. There was no look of malice in his eyes, just a fevered certainty and something that was almost exhilaration.

"Let him go." They were the first words Marsac had uttered for a long time. "Time to make your choice Aramis."

Aramis felt a chill that was nothing to with the wind and rain, as if near death.

"I have," he said regretfully. "I’m sorry." He pulled one of his feet out of Marsac’s grasp, and kicked sharply downwards into his face.

Weakened as he was, there’d been little enough force behind it but perhaps the shock was enough because suddenly the weight was gone and Marsac had vanished into the darkness without so much as a scream.

"Aramis?" Athos’ voice brought him back to himself, and he forced himself to look up.

"He’s gone," Aramis said bleakly, unsure if Athos had seen or guessed what he’d just done.

"Give me your other hand," Athos ordered, and Aramis managed to reach up to him. This was at least slightly more secure, although it revealed a new problem in that even without the added weight of Marsac, Athos now had no hold on anything to anchor him enough to pull Aramis up. It was all he could do to lie still and hold him there – any movement threatened to pitch them both off.

Aramis closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again, looking steadily up at Athos.

"You’re going to have to let me go," he said calmly. "Save yourself Athos."

"I thought I told you to shut up?" Athos panted. "Save your strength. I’ll think of something."

"You’re not normally this optimistic."

Athos gave a pained laugh. "I have my moments."

"Oi!"

The shout came from above and Athos looked round, trying not to shift his weight. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted in a beam of ethereal light. He had a fleeting fancy it was an angel, except now it was swearing at him, and he belatedly realised the light came from car headlights outside, shining in through the building.

 _"Constance?_ Get out of here, it’s not safe."

Constance rolled her eyes. "Here. Catch." Something came snaking down the floor towards him and Athos saw it was the end of a rope. He glanced down at Aramis.

"I’m going to have to let go of one hand," he warned. "Hang on to my left."

With a burst of renewed hope Aramis managed to transfer his grip and Athos made a grab for the rope. He caught it, but the change in weight distribution made the floor shift beneath him sickeningly and he could feel his grip on Aramis slipping.

"Aramis, take the rope!" Athos felt Aramis groping blindly for the end of it, then the whole cliff seemed to shudder beneath them, making pieces of plaster and heavier things rain down from above. With a tearing screech, part of the building frame parted company with the rest and started toppling inexorably over the cliff. Athos grasped the rope with both hands, screwing his eyes shut against the sudden clouds of dust and hoping that Aramis had managed to get a good purchase on it as well. His weight had gone, but Athos couldn’t tell if he was still there beneath him. From somewhere higher up Constance screamed, and Athos had a brief second to hope whatever she’d tied the rope to it wasn’t the bit of the building currently collapsing and then the whole world fell in.

–

Porthos and his team were standing outside the house in Saltdean at something of a loss. The house’s inhabitants had been processed and taken away and the road cordoned off. They’d indisputably saved several lives tonight – the house was already crumbling at the back – but it seemed the trail for Marsac and Aramis had gone abruptly cold.

"Sir." Marcheaux appeared out of the gloom holding out a phone. "Brighton nick, they want to talk to you."

Porthos took the phone curiously, and stepped away to take the call. D’Artagnan took the opportunity to check his own and was surprised to see he had a missed call from Constance. As he listened to the message his expression changed to one of horror, and he turned to look for Porthos, only to find the inspector already hurrying back towards him.

"That was Brighton. Apparently 999 had a garbled phone call about a potential hostage situation and people in a building about to go over the cliff. Figured it was a prank call, except the woman mentioned me by name. Didn’t leave her own, unfortunately, so – " He broke off at d’Artagnan’s expression.

"I think I know who it was sir. I had a message from Constance, saying the same thing. It’s just – the person she says is being held – " he hesitated. "Is Athos."

"What?" Porthos stared at him, thunderstruck.

D’Artagnan shrugged helplessly, holding up his phone. "All I know is what she says. They fetched up at this deserted pub, and there was a man with a gun, and Athos got forced inside. It was a bit confused, to be honest. But she also says the cliff was crumbling, and she was scared the building was going to go with it. It’s Marsac sir, surely? Has to be?" he prompted, when Porthos didn’t move.

"How long ago did she leave the message?" he asked woodenly.

D’Artagnan checked, and winced. "About three quarters of an hour. Must have been when we were inside. We’d better get over there?"

Porthos nodded slowly. "Brighton are on the scene already. They checked it out, just in case."

"And?" D’Artagnan asked nervously.

Porthos looked away. "And the building had already collapsed. At least one reported fatality."

"Did they say who?"

"No." Porthos seemed to come back to himself and shook his head angrily. "Get us over there sergeant. Now."

–

There were blue lights flashing and flood lights had been set up and the whole place looked like an alien landing site. Porthos refused to let himself think of it as a disaster movie, refused to let himself think anything until he knew for certain what had happened. Attempts to call Athos and Constance had been unsuccessful, and Brighton wouldn’t or couldn’t tell them anything further over the phone, just saying they’d need to speak to the officers on the ground, as they were having trouble with mobile reception.

Porthos had clung to this as the reason nobody was answering, because to think anything else – no, he wasn’t going to think it. D’Artagnan had driven them down dark lanes at speeds that technically should have got him arrested, while Porthos resisted the urge to tell him to go faster. Finally they’d arrived, Porthos flashing ID and marching into the milling groups of people, leaving d’Artagnan to explain who they were and why they were here.

Faces looked strange washed in the strobing lights, and a line of tape prevented anyone straying too close to what appeared to be a still freshly crumbling cliff edge and a pile of rubble that might once have been a building, a pillared porch the only thing still unfeasibly standing.

There were two ambulances, although they both seemed to be empty, one with its back doors standing open and a group of paramedics chatting outside, huddled in waterproof hi-viz.

Porthos felt dizzy, so many strange faces coming and going, the emergency lights adding to the dreamlike effect. He needed to find whoever was in charge, enquire properly, charging about at random was getting him nowhere.

"Porthos?"

He swung round, half-convinced he was hearing things.

"Oh thank fuck."

Athos staggered back a pace as Porthos hurled himself into his arms, wrapping him in a bear-like hug and burying his face in his neck, shaking with relief and emotion.

Athos hugged him back, equally glad to see him and faintly relieved that if Porthos was here that meant he wouldn’t have an awkward explanation to make later as to how he’d spent his evening.

Eventually Porthos pulled back, still holding onto Athos’ arms and inspecting him worriedly. Athos looked tired and bruised and there was blood on his face, but he seemed to be in one piece. Porthos gradually realised the figure standing next to them in a hi-viz jacket two sizes too big for her and regarding him with a look of faint amusement was Constance.

"What the fuck have you two been up to?" he demanded, then spotted d’Artagnan in the distance scanning the crowd as urgently as he had been. He waved a hand to get his attention, and d’Artagnan hurried over, looking like he might collapse in relief when he saw Constance.

"Took your time. Finally got my message then?" Constance said tartly, then broke into a grin as he picked her up and spun her round, laughing with relief.

"We heard there was a casualty," Porthos said, suddenly wondering who it had been if Athos and Constance were safe, and coming up with a worrying possibility. "Don’t say it was Aramis?"

"No, he’s over there," said Athos, nodding towards a police van. "They’re interviewing him. They let us go for the moment, but they’ll want to see us again at some point. It was Marsac who died. He fell." No need to say anything more at this point, Athos felt. Perhaps later, to Porthos, in private. But nothing that needed to go on record.

"How the hell did you find him?" Porthos asked. "And why didn’t you tell me what you were up to?"

Athos raised his hands in surrender. "Not guilty. We weren’t looking for him. It was entirely a coincidence."

Porthos looked doubtful, but he took Athos’ hand in his and squeezed it. "So? Why were you here?"

"Long story."

"Give me the condensed version. What happened here?"

"Marsac intended for the building to go over the cliff with him and Aramis in it. I turn up at the door, he pulls a gun on me. Building starts to go, Marsac’s hanging onto Aramis, who’s hanging on to me. Marsac falls, we’re about to go the same way. Enter Constance, with a tow rope from the car and an excellent sense of timing."

"I should lock up the whole fucking lot of you for your own safety," Porthos grumbled, then flashed Constance a tired but grateful smile. "Thanks."

Athos bit his lip as he thought of something. "Constance. Have you still got what you took earlier? In the kitchen?"

She gave him a dubious look, but Athos held out his hand and nodded encouragingly. Constance took the little bottle of pills from her pocket and gave it to him, conscious of the curious look Porthos gave them both when it rattled incriminatingly.

Athos took a couple of steps towards the cliff edge, drew his arm back and hurled the bottle up into the air and out over the edge.

There was a pause, finally broken by d'Artagnan.

"You know, I can see tomorrow's headlines now. Local fisherman knocked unconscious by unexpected falling object."

They laughed, moving away from the edge and towards the cars.

"What was that?" Porthos asked quietly, falling into step beside Athos.

"That – was a turning point," said Athos decisively. Porthos gave him an enquiring look, and he smiled. "Turns out nearly falling off a cliff gives you quite the new perspective."

"You know that's just the adrenaline rush, right?"

"I'll take it." Athos slid his hand back into Porthos' as they walked along. "Can we go home, or will you need to sort things out here?"

"Nah, it's Brighton's patch. They want me, they can call me tomorrow," said Porthos, squeezing his hand. "Might be a long night for Aramis though." He glanced over at the circle of lights, and had a sudden thought. "Shit! Someone should call Anne."

"He already has," Athos reassured him. "They leant him a satellite phone. She's waiting up for him."

"Good." They reached the cars, and Porthos nodded to d’Artagnan. "You okay to go with Constance if I take Athos home in this one?"

"Sure. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Got a feeling it’ll be a long day." Porthos climbed behind the wheel and Athos slid into the passenger seat, massaging his wrist. Porthos gave him a sideways look. "You really alright?"

"Yeah. Bit sore, but I’ll live. The paramedics checked me over," Athos added, when Porthos looked unconvinced.

"Mmmn. Have you eaten tonight yet?" Porthos asked, changing the subject as his own stomach growled pointedly.

"Not yet, no. We were actually looking for somewhere for dinner when we ended up here."

Porthos nodded philosophically. "Wanna get chips?"

"Have I mentioned the fact that I love you lately?"

Laughing, Porthos started the car.

–

Driving back, Constance related the evening’s events to d’Artagnan, who listened open-mouthed. 

"Anyway, when I saw the gun, I knew I had to call the police. I drove back up the road until I managed to get a signal. I called you first but you weren't answering." 

"I _was_ rather busy at the time."

"So I called 999. I just wasn't entirely sure they believed me," Constance said indignantly. "And not knowing what was happening was worse, so I went back." She shuddered, remembering the scene that had faced her, the building lit up in the headlights leaning at a crazy angle towards the cliff.

"The twisting of the building had burst the front door open. I got the tow rope out and tied it to the car, and then to me, and went in," Constance said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. "There was a light, so I made for it. I figured maybe with the place falling down the man with the gun would be too preoccupied to notice me, but I didn't see him." She shuddered again, and turned the car's heating up. "I know now he'd already gone over the edge. Poor man." 

"Poor man?" D'Artagnan yelped. "He was nearly the death of all of you."

"Yes, but still. He must've been in such a state to get to that point. And what a horrible way to go."

D'Artagnan muttered something that sounded like 'good riddance', but it was dark in the car and Constance just flicked him a frown.

"Anyway. Athos and Aramis were hanging on by their fingers. Thankfully the rope was just long enough to reach them." Constance glossed over the subsequent moments. Bits of the building had torn away and disappeared with a chunk of the cliff, walls had collapsed like so many dominoes and she'd been convinced they were all about to be buried alive.

When the dust had settled, and she found herself somehow still alive she realised the solid doorframe lintel had protected her from the worse of the collapse. Crawling out of the debris coughing and bleeding, she'd been almost too afraid to look for the others, convinced they'd been swept away, but miraculously there was still a weight on the end of the rope, and it shifted as first Athos and then Aramis appeared over the edge, filthy and exhausted but still stubbornly alive. 

They'd staggered together out of the building seconds before the rest of it had fallen in on itself. About a minute after that the emergency services had arrived, which as Constance declared sarcastically was better late than never. 

Once safely home in the flat they shared in Crossley, d'Artagnan poured Constance a large glass of wine and joined her on the sofa. She took a sip, watching him consideringly over the rim.

"You're taking it all very calmly," she murmured. "I thought you'd be pitching a fit I went back in there."

"No, I have full confidence in you," d'Artagnan protested. "You saved two lives tonight. I'm proud of you."

"Well. Thank you." Constance sipped more wine, still studying him with a certain amount of suspicion.

"So, um," d'Artagnan started, and Constance snorted.

"Here it comes. What? Thinking about it you've been very quiet about exactly what happened to you tonight."

"Oh, no, that was a complete non-event," d'Artagnan assured her, choosing to forget about the way it had felt standing in the swaying house on the edge of the cliff. Right now he had a very clear picture of what it must have taken for Constance to run into the collapsing pub, and he was genuine in his admiration. But he did also have a confession to make. 

"I've asked to be sent on armed response training," he said as nonchalantly as possible. "Bloody Marcheaux's done it, and next time I'm not going to be the one bringing up the rear."

Constance sat up in alarm. "What? But that means you'll be the one in the firing line."

"Well, yes, that's the general idea," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Besides, isn't it better than being unarmed and still in the firing line? Anyway, it's not as if we have much gun crime down here. It's more of a formality. I mean there were no guns tonight, but I could have gone in with the first team if I'd had the firearms training."

"Well. I suppose training's good," said Constance dubiously. "You will be careful won't you?"

"I'm always careful!"

Constance nearly choked on her wine, and d'Artagnan topped up her glass, grinning.

"Well. Nearly always." 

–

Having eaten and showered, Athos and Porthos were finally tucked up in bed together. Despite Athos’ assurance he'd been cleared by the ambulance crew, Porthos had insisted on checking him over minutely for cuts and bruises and as he had also insisted on kissing each one better it had inevitably ended up with them making love.

"Sorry." Belatedly remembering how tired and sore Athos had been, afterwards Porthos buried his face contritely against Athos' chest where they lay sprawled in the bedclothes.

He felt Athos laugh, a hand coming to rest on his head and stroking his hair.

"Never apologise for that," Athos murmured. "Right now I'm happy just to be alive."

"Are you going to tell me the rest now then?" Porthos prompted, wriggling up to sit next to him and pulling the covers back over them both.

"The rest?" Athos had already related how most of his scrapes had come about during Porthos' lingering survey of his increasingly naked body, and he'd brought him up to speed in the car on the way home on what Aramis had told him of Marsac's imprisonment.

"Yeah. The long version. The one that includes what you were doing out there in the first place, which I notice you've carefully left out so far," Porthos said. "The one that includes whatever that was you chucked over the cliff, and also avoided explaining at the time."

Athos snuggled down next to him so that Porthos could fold him into his arms, and sighed. "Ah. That version."

"Mmmn."

"It was – a bottle of sleeping pills," Athos said steadily. "I found them."

"Found them?" Porthos heard the scepticism in his own voice and winced, but Athos just poked him in the ribs.

"Yes. Found them, mister suspicious. They were in one of the suitcases, I must have brought them from London. Probably out of date by now, but still. Yeah. Gave me a bit of a wobble."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Porthos hugged him closer and pressed a kiss into his hair.

"It only happened this afternoon," Athos blinked, realising how much had happened in such a short time.

"You could have called me," Porthos insisted, feeling guilty. He'd known Athos was feeling low, and wondered if he should have paid more attention.

"You were off saving Aramis - or so I thought." Athos looked up at him. "I couldn't have pulled you away from that."

"You could've," Porthos said stubbornly, although even as he said it he wondered if it was true. If he'd even noticed or been able to take Athos' call, would he have been able to walk out in the middle of a major operation to go to him? He wanted to think yes, but the reality would have been more complicated.

"Thank you." Athos kissed him on the cheek, and smiled. It was a smile that said he knew exactly what Porthos was thinking, and Porthos groaned.

"Athos, if you ever - "

"I called Constance," Athos interrupted him. "Okay? I called Constance. And she came over, and took them away, and it was fine."

Porthos relaxed a little. "You didn't take any?"

"No. It was close, but no." 

"Things have really been that bad?"

"I didn't think so, until I saw them," Athos admitted. "It's like being handed a magic bullet to make all your problems go away, but at the same time knowing the bullet itself has the potential to kill you. Am I mixing my metaphors?"

"You're asking the wrong person. Stop changing the subject, go on."

"Nothing more to tell, really. Constance prescribed a change of scene, insisted we go out for dinner somewhere, otherwise I'd just've been sat at home worrying about what you might be facing, and what might be happening to Aramis, and the pills, and how we're going to sort the house out, and - " Athos caught himself with a guilty laugh. "Yeah, things might've been getting on top of me a bit," he said more quietly. 

"Oh Ath." Porthos looked at him mournfully and Athos slapped him on the bare arm.

"I'm fine. I mean, weirdly I sort of am, right now. Maybe you're right, and it is the adrenaline. Maybe I should take up extreme sports or something."

Porthos snorted. "Like I don't worry about you enough."

"Perhaps not," Athos conceded with a smile. "Anyway, like I say, there was this map lying about, and we picked a spot at random really."

"What map?"

"I thought it might be yours. Old OS map of the south coast?" Porthos shook his head and Athos shrugged. "Must have been left in the house when we moved in. I don't know what happened to it actually, I must've left it in Constance's car."

"You often go out for dinner at places that have been closed for years? We checked, you shouldn't even've been able to get down that road, the place has been earmarked for demolition for months."

"It was dark. Maybe we missed a sign. Anyway, it turned out okay."

"Only thanks to Constance," Porthos said darkly.

"Yeah. She said after she’d called the police she couldn't face the thought of just sitting and waiting, so she turned round and came back to the pub."

"What was the name of that place anyway? I never did see the sign you were talking about."

"Oh. Yes. Funny really. It was called The Last Drop."

Porthos’ expression was eloquent.

–

The next morning Athos wandered up to the churchyard, and saw a familiar figure sitting on a bench sheltered by the angle of the porch. He walked over slowly, shoes crunching on the gravel, but Aramis appeared too deep in thought to notice his approach.

"I'd've thought they'd have given you at least one day off for being kidnapped. No rest for the wicked?"

Aramis looked up and gave a faint smile when he saw who it was.

"Officially I'm not working. But it's easier to think up here somehow."

"Want me to go away again?"

"No, you're okay."

Athos sat next to him, stretching his legs out in the winter sunshine. For a minute or so they sat in silence, enjoying the fragile warmth and the birdsong.

"I killed him." Aramis said it quietly, staring straight ahead across the churchyard.

"No you didn't."

"I - Athos, I did."

"I saw what happened," Athos said gently. "He was trying to kill you, Aramis. To kill both of us. You didn't take him into that house, you didn't take him over the edge. What happened was all on him. You told me yourself, he didn't want to take his own life. In the end he forced you into doing it for him."

Aramis gave him a bleak smile. "Suicide by vicar?"

"Something like that." Athos smiled back. "I'm sorry. I know he was your friend. I can't imagine how hard it must be for you right now."

"It helps, actually, that you know," Aramis admitted. "That it's not just me."

"I haven't said anything. Not even to Porthos," Athos promised. "I assume the police didn't try and make trouble?"

"I told them he fell," admitted Aramis.

"Good. We've had enough martyrs for one week."

Aramis choked out a laugh. "I was tempted. But I realised I'd only be hurting Anne if I got myself locked up. It would have served no purpose other than to soothe my own guilt, and God's no keener on false humility than anyone else."

"Aramis, it was self-defence at worst," Athos told him sternly. "And they'd have seen that."

"Perhaps."

Athos shook his head. "How is Anne? Bearing up?"

"Stoic." Aramis nodded. "Relieved, obviously."

"Will you delay the wedding?"

"No, we're going to go ahead with it."

"Really?" Athos looked surprised. "Are you up to it so soon?"

"Well put it this way, it's not going to be the most stressful thing that's happened to me this week, is it?"

"You haven't heard my speech yet."

This time the laugh was genuine. "Is it too late to ask Porthos to be my best man instead?"

"Does Anne know what happened?" Athos asked after a while.

"Not all of it," said Aramis carefully. "And not - what happened before. The things that broke him. The things that lead up to it. The things we did, under orders."

"Perhaps you should. I mean, you are marrying her."

"I've put a lot of effort into not thinking about them myself," said Aramis. "There were things I'm not proud of Athos. I don't want Anne to look at me differently."

"She knows you were in the Forces. Besides, I think you underestimate her."

"And you tell Porthos all of your darkest thoughts and secrets do you?" Aramis challenged.

"Most of them," Athos said mildly. "I've found I can. Although I admit it's not always easy. And it's not always until afterwards. I'm working on getting better at that. But I think you owe it to the person you're with, to be as honest as you can be. When it's something that might affect you enough to affect them too, if you see what I mean."

"Is that a veiled way of telling me to get counselling?" Aramis sighed.

"Not necessarily. Just don't keep everything bottled up. And there's always me, if you really can't tell Anne."

Aramis nodded tiredly. "Thanks. I appreciate it. I mean that. Maybe one day I might even take you up on it, eh?"

"You know where I am."

The sun went behind a cloud then and they both shivered, getting up from the bench and pacing the perimeter of the church to keep warm.

"I haven't apologised," Aramis said. "For nearly getting you killed."

"I hardly think it was your fault."

"He was my friend."

"I hope the rest of them aren't that murderous. Who else is coming to the wedding?"

"Nobody from the regiment. In fact my sister's the only person coming from outside the village."

"I look forward to meeting her. Not murderous, I hope?"

"Not as a rule." Aramis smiled. "Just don't get between her and the punch."

–

"Do you think it feels weird?" Athos murmured.

"What, getting married?" Porthos grinned. "Not having second thoughts I hope?"

They were standing outside the church while a photographer harried various groups in and out of shot with the happy couple. 

"No you daft beggar. I meant, for Aramis, being married in his own church by a different vicar. It’d be like you being told what to do in your own office by a colleague."

"You’ve met my colleagues, yes?" Porthos asked. "None of them backward in coming forward."

Athos rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"I do," Porthos agreed with a smile of apology. He reached for Athos’ hand, and they huddled closer together for warmth. The day had dawned blessedly dry and bright, but there was a perishing wind and Athos privately thought Anne looked about five minutes from hypothermia. She had on a peach-cream satin gown with a hood trimmed in white faux-fur and a radiant smile as she and Aramis posed for what felt like an endless series of formal photographs.

"We’re having an indoor ceremony, right?" Athos muttered, and Porthos gave a snort of laughter.

"If you want." 

"And just one photo, with everybody in it?"

"Maybe two? One with just us?" Porthos negotiated, and Athos conceded this with a nod.

"If they’re quick about it. We’re not having this guy."

"To be fair I don’t think we’ve got this many friends," Porthos grinned. "I don’t know who half of them are."

"Anne’s lot, I think," Athos said. "Come to stare and gossip mostly, it feels like. And half the parish. Aramis didn’t like to tell anybody no."

"At least Louis’ enjoying himself." The toddler, dressed in a sailor suit, was currently trying to climb up a box tomb under the tolerant eye of his nanny who, Porthos realised now he looked closely, was taking the opportunity to sneak a cigarette.

"Kid’ll go far." Athos tried to surreptitiously stamp some feeling back into his feet. 

"Do you think Aramis will be okay?" Porthos asked, as the group of people in shot was shuffled round yet again. "Lot to take on board all at once, on top of everything that happened to him. Getting married, becoming a full-time father, moving into the hotel and having to take on all that responsibility on top of the day job." 

"Sometimes being busy is best," Athos said consideringly. 

"So you don’t have to think about things?"

"Until you’re ready," Athos clarified. "And yes. I think he’ll be okay. Assuming he doesn’t freeze to death in the next twenty minutes anyway."

Porthos laughed. "Come on. They won’t notice if we sneak off ahead to the reception, we’ve had our picture done. We can always say we’re sussing out the venue for our do."

"You just want first crack at the buffet, don’t you?"

"You know me too well." 

They slipped quietly away from the wedding party, taking the path that wound through the old yews to come out on the road further up the hill. Somewhere a robin was singing, and as they passed Wilfred’s grave Athos saw someone – presumably his sister – had left a bunch of autumn crocuses on it. 

Had it really been the old boy who’d saved them from the tree that night, Athos wondered? He felt he could understand a little of what Aramis and Marsac must have experienced, the dislocation of surviving an event which, all other things being equal, should have killed them. But Aramis at least had come through it and out the other side, and even if the result was a few more scars both inside and out, today was his wedding day, and he’d never looked happier.

"You’re quiet," Porthos said. "Everything alright?"

"Yes." Athos looked up at him, and smiled. "Do you know, I think it is."

–


End file.
